I cannot sleep in a factory. My head is filled with noisy machines. The whirring blades, fan the images. The greased gears, grind out words. I can’t sleep in this factory.
My head is filled with noisy machines.
The whirring blades, fan the images.
The greased gears, grind out words.
I can’t sleep in this factory.
The nascent products slide down
the chute of my consciousness,
slippery in their birth canal,
and out onto the factory floor.
This is a place of birthing,
and quickened, fertile feeling,
not for a resting, slowing heartbeat.
How can I sleep in a factory
with machines humming
and cogs buzzing ?
Sleep is impossible on a production line,
So awake I’ll stay to work.
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