James Cook

April 17th, 2008 | by admin |

Night Shift At The Machine Shop Out in the dark past the grime-caked windows I feel pain begin to stir in the wombs of animals while here under a smear of ugly lights the lathe scrapes out its archaic rhythm constantly until the raw mesh of my nerves starts to hum. Its an old song of brass shavings and sweaty faces and there is something necessary to it if we’re ever to understand why the dreams of our fathers grew terrible and left their hands scarred like maps to cities that are always just a

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