Coward of the Meltdeck
Far out across the distant hills, the angry sky sparked red,
A violent shade of violet as thunder woke the dead.
Pitch-black against the midnight sky, the clouds lost all control,
Unleashing all the fury of the heavens down below.
I skirted from the warehouse to the safety of the melt,
Before the marbles poised as raindrops and cooler air were felt.
From the safety of the black dirt and heat from yesterday,
I gazed upon my heaven's wrath, afraid to look away.
The storm outside kept raging on, the foundry windows shook,
Until the coward of the meltdeck dared a second look.
And just as quickly as it came thundering into town,
The wrath of heaven disappeared, and quiet settled down.
I softly thanked my Lord for such an ominous display,
And then I thanked Him once again for taking them away.
As I have wondered through the halls of old,
the minds of famous scribes in academia
had made me fearless, oft carelessly bold
when Mind betrayed lexical anaemia.
Soon baying at the Moon as it weeps,
a different view, depending on aspect.
The wisdom I crave inexorably seeps,
but seldom culminates into respect.
The misprision's become my badge of honour
as hyperbole swills in lexicon o’ Man.
Long years of uninformed populous dour
with magniloquent thinking that poetry can.
Yet I contemplate books in warehouse—
dyslexia transformed it into ‘wh…house’—
endless mirth that others could never douse.
Breath breath.
Because the car that will cause the accident is being made now.
Crackling in that warehouse.
Shine all over.
I am able to predict the future.
Of car accidents and not much else.
Severed.
I wish it was.
Know stuff like the breathlessness that happens all the time, striking, premonitions.
Premonitions but I only need one.
I passed out from that crunch in my neck.
From that jolt.
I never drove again, you just don’t.
But three weeks later I was a passenger.
Sitting on the wrong side of- boom.
Just because you don’t drive?
Doesn’t mean people don’t go anywhere anymore.
We’re the travelers.
And the pit stops aren’t our own.
Put me not in the old people’s home
Where it smells of piss and the neglected moan
I’d rather you drift me out to sea
Where I can be forever free.
I will eat what I want, when I want
I will do as is my penchant
I will go to bed when I like
I might even ride a bike.
Being put into a warehouse for the aged
Would simply make me feel caged
I assure you the light will still shine within
Even if you can’t see it under my old skin.
And when I pass, do not cry
For I’ll have no regrets as I die
But be happy, I do implore
As I pass on over to the other shore.
frigid warehouse
weathers extreme coldness
warmer on the outside
*Inside the warehouse it's 34 degrees. When it's extremely cold outside it makes it so much colder inside.
working in the cold
has no effect on body
when it's thirty four
*Working in a warehouse that's 34° every day 365 days a year.
small gust from my mouth
signals coldness of warehouse
even in summer
Life-like Robots
In the large warehouse were robots
For export, those fitted with different abilities are kept.
During the day, the robots absorb humans
activity such as music from the TV mounted high on the wall,
at night, they come to a curious half-life and passionless
dance to the tune remembered.
One night, a guard came over to them, and since the dancing
It was a secret that killed the guard, breaking his neck
threw him down some steep steps, making it look like
an accident, and since robots have no moral consciousness
thought no more about it.
The problem was that the guard`s cap was in the room, and they
found some fibres from clothing on some of the robots.
It was not spoken of, but the workplace felt eerie. Were
the robots watching them? Had they lost control of their
precious invention? The answers hang heavily in the air, and few want to work at the warehouse anymore.
Disguising Interview
“Tell me what happened”, said Satan.
Hmm. I went to an interview at a company.
“Where?” In the Park Royal Industrial Park.
“What company is it?” I'll tell you later.
“So, what happened?” Asked Master Satan.
I rang the bell. A man was let into the building.
A worker. Warehouse worker. Middle-aged man.
He took me into the canteen. He sat me down.
He sat me down at a table. There was only one chair
Positioned in front of the door of the toilet, beside the table
One table. One chair. “Interview with one chair??
I arrived earlier. Ten minutes. I sat there for more than twenty
Nobody came. “Continue, please.” During this time, I was monitored
“From the camera?” Also. During this time, men walked in and out of the toilet
And all of them watched me. All of them were… “I understand.”
How these men look like?” Manly. Aggressive. And other…
“Did someone talk to you?” No. Nobody. I left the building.
“This was a psychological test. In the UK. You are a victim.”
Of English Psychology. “Yes.”
I don’t need
Psychological
Auschwitcz
In my life
“That’s
Right”
Genocide, a parasite fed on silence,
smuggles our humanities—
bombs and tanks leave no soul behind.
Corruption lurks,
demolishing nationwide peace.
History rewritten in smoke,
while truth drowns in blood.
Blood paints the walls
from warehouse to parliament.
Leeches suck on humanity,
slaughter masked as secularism.
How many graves
before peace has a price?
How many souls
must be offered before we wake?
How many silences
before our voices learn to speak?
The world watches,
feasting on headlines,
forgetting the cost of indifference.
And yet—
in the cracks of ruin,
a whisper grows into thunder.
The oppressed carve their names
into the stone of tomorrow.
Justice, though delayed,
waits like fire beneath the ashes.
One day,
the parasite will starve.
One day,
silence will shatter into storm.
One day,
the chained will rise as fire.
And on that day,
the world will blaze with truth,
and humanity—
will no longer bow.
Began chatting, then as talking.
Talking, to safe haven.
Safe haven, to unfolding the dark tucked away.
Unfolding, to sharing years of distant memories.
Sharing, to unloading your internal warehouse.
Unloading, to tears flowing.
Tears flowing, words stinging.
Words stinging, airway burning.
Relief, haunting at bay for a passing moment.
Healing slowly, piece by piece.
Uncovering layer by layer.
Tear by tear.
One hour used to feel endless, now one hour feels like minutes.
Like meeting a friend, you felt you always knew. All the masks fall, no more camouflage, no more sabotage.
Just healing, growing and learning.
It’s a warehouse now!
Apartment no more,
filled with bags and boxes
and cartons galore.
Go look in the drawer,
But the item’s not in it.
In the box marked Save,
Discard, Storage Unit?
Never mind, it’s gone.
and whatever its fate,
I may see it again
or perhaps it’s too late.
I’ll sleep in my chair.
The bed is smothered
with clothes I must sort,
some linens and others.
I trip over things that
were left on the floor
and find I can’t open
the coat closet door.
A few days from now
the move will get done
and I’ll get settled in.
I can imagine the fun!
The commonplace
entertains the unspeakable.
Horror yellows in vaults.
It is all recorded, all labeled
all explained or condemned.
We keep the worst atrocities close,
create libraries to warehouse
the obscene and gruesome.
We have photographed
every current ghastly act.
Pundits endlessly debate
the proverbs of ancient spiders.
Dragons guard the cribs
of our future demons.
Serpents thought read our dreams.
Slaughter demands its place in the sun.
Who then are we
to command this tide of blood
that washes so viscously
against our feet?
An old friend visited today, no longer young Men
Our hair changed, not with dyes or clippers anymore
Two silver foxes, a little rounder than before
We both have partners now, I have kids
Where once warehouse raves and Oxford st debauchery stood
Now roast pork and red wine abound
A bottle shared, just slightly older than the story of us
The bonds that held us together remain unbroken
We laugh and shared our tales, those funny sayings we had
Where’s so and so now, and how did we get here?
Twelve years, as if no more than a weekend had passed
Promises to make it sooner next time
A warm embrace and gently to bed
I love you brother
Work to me is work
If you're not careful, you'll get hurt
Sometimes being at work is a joy
But sometimes it's rough, oh! boy
Work is up! Work is down!
Guys clowning around
Taking the forklift for a drive
Here in the warehouse, it's always live
Work can be sweet, work can be neat
The pace of work keeps a continuous beat
The people, some are great, some are not
Winters are cold, summers are hot
Author: Floyd Neal
Date: July 2003
Inspiration: Having Fun
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