industrial park & the acrid chemical tang
so diseased it infects the ground around it & turns it
to broken concrete & faded yellow lines
& oil stains
warehouse where long faces on sad frames
move slowly from stack to stack
& the hi-lo beeps pleasantly like an idiot at an infirmary
would smile at the rows of dead & dying
(is there anything else I can help you with today?)
soulless fluorescent casts no shadow on the pallid blue office
drop ceiling but pipes above it rust & whine even after the lights are out
& (my name is BLANK. thank you for calling) even here
the chemical intoxicates and warps around your skull &
you can be sure that the voice on the line when the phone chirps
is a ghost long since dead that only has a voice
in some other ethereal place where a phone line is
all there is
what mythology was wrought from our souls when we came here?
what past life-future life-present life was bartered when
we signed & what place in our guts is kin to a gray industrial park?
have a great day. goodbye. goodbye.