On the 36th Floor

By | 1 May 2012

we are on par with thunder.
The clouds are switched to reverse,
hoovering steam from the craniums
of CEOs. They’re holding shit together
just beneath the spires of sky-scrapers,
channelling gold-fever, sucking lifts
up shafts with every morning coffee-
run. And then where does it go?
Get scrambled by the flurry of bats
above the bridge? Shoot rocks
down from the solar system? Listen,
I’m not trying to tell you anything
you don’t already know. I saw you
watch that woman try to push back
the bones round her eyes, and we’ve
all been caught in the tiny electrical
storms of kitchenette etiquette wars.
There must be more than two million
people stashed behind those windows:
wired up, plugged in and terrified
of their own numerical inventions.
Zoom out and you’ll see the same red pop up
everywhere, lacing flags to lights to trees
that just won’t let go of their leaves,
strapping the city in place, so nothing
kicks round the universe when the earth
tips at the end of the day. What we might
lose: decimals culled from rounding down,
ideas cut loose from interrupted
conversations, your Disnified
musical future, blasted to bits
and shuddering, dehydrated,
in the air conditioning vent,
to lose
its grip.

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