Nostalgia for old industry, salutes
As if the soot of history clogging
Lungs binds fictive containment.
As if my blood gurgles silently
Through kitsch brass-admirals.
As if the point of life were tipping,
So that our amassing passing drift
Can polish pain,
Not enough to be old,
To sacrifice your elements
By pressing fingers on forearms,
Determined to anthropomorphise
A deity that lights his canon
Behind salted brown backs.
We must say goodbye