Saturday Its Gyro

Something is rolling from Friday's grim machines to seamless 
receptacles. Each has a window, a hole cut from the otherwise browness 
so efficient, subsidised trucks can haul this fat arse to a sprawlingly 
grey, though unassuming; architecturally speaking; thing of bricks and 
other less apparent materials. In digits of days it clocks in-out-in, an 
incessant counting, directs; quite unaware of it's organic components, 
though they treat it as second home. Temporary is the nature of this 
office. You see, one day this will again be a field. A flat home for a 
fat dairy herd. But this animal is utterly alone in its unique motion - 
those odd little packets have never really moved. Never. They've already 
reached their destinations. There is not one single empty vein in its 
entire being, even today. Yet foolish, ignoble recipients still 
participate in ritual endings and beginnings. Though later, as demands 
their irresolute natures; furthering yesterday, longing. Quite without 
alarm, the thing wakes lightly, almost from a nap, stretching, prods its 
most extremities to wind back desolate scrolls of gaunt shutter:eyes:and 
does not see this, closes them again again, tadly disappointed by 
lunchtime, hungry, agitated somehow - ablink; dreams; a brief paradox of 
light and celestial puns involving, of all things; gods and genitals and 
chariot races. Sunday surveys its streets more quietly, refurbishing 
intrinsic systems, tweaking after construction companies and planners, 
designers of grandly things. Expanding and assimilating as we might a 
skin. Yet by Monday pm it will have sucked us all in, in rows and rows, 
gasping, swearing, looking thin.

Cor, 2001