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,
Can admit:
Right;
Wrong.
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
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