West. Rusty tracks stretch for miles, upon miles, upon miles. An industry built upon the broken backs and burning shoulders of 100,000 underpaid and overworked individuals. The sour smell of that black oozing tar and slowly rotting flesh rise from the gaping wounds cut deep within the tender side of a land that never really begged for industry.
The old men bent double, heavy hammers hanging from arthritic hands. Cheap cigarettes held tightly between yellowed rotting teeth, the growling beast rushes blindly forward, deaf to the calls and cries of 100,000 underpaid and overworked individuals. Those lonely tracks will be their lonely graves. Sprawled in a ditch or left naked under the cruel gaze of a sun that knows no mercy. Bleached bones and broken fingers bent back and disconnected at the joints, like some sad southern banjo player plucking out 'Dixie' on the last lonely string attached to the broken headstock of the last lonely possession he still holds dear.
And so the growling beast rushes blindly forward. And there's a forest growing through the minds of it's passengers. Starting at the base of the neck, scratching along the top of the skull, then bursting forth from the eye sockets in a fury of bloodied leaves and branches, scattering the only remaining vestige of knowledge about the first class compartment in a swirl of birch bark and brain matter. They'll scrub the walls, but the stench will remain. And they'll beat their chests and tear at their satin waistcoats, but the iron horse they fashioned rolls deeper and deeper still into the bowls of a land that never really begged for industry and over, and over, and over the rotting corpses of 100,000 underpaid and overworked individuals.
And someday that great beast will reach the sea, somewhere off the Western coast of the United States. And it'll plunge into the pacific ocean amidst a swirling cloud of steam and falling debris. The timber and iron will be plucked from the soil by their roots and fed whole to the wolves and to the owls. And grandfather will stare deep into his empty bottle and pull the few remaining leaves from his ancient tangled beard. The faceless corpses of animals slain will march their solemn way down to the rocky beaches, and they'll be shouting hallelujahs from their non-mouths, and tapping their tiny woodland paws in perfect time. And with one gesture the ghosts of 100,000 underpaid and overworked individuals will pick up their hammers and cast them to the deep.
The old men bent double, heavy hammers hanging from arthritic hands. Cheap cigarettes held tightly between yellowed rotting teeth, the growling beast rushes blindly forward, deaf to the calls and cries of 100,000 underpaid and overworked individuals. Those lonely tracks will be their lonely graves. Sprawled in a ditch or left naked under the cruel gaze of a sun that knows no mercy. Bleached bones and broken fingers bent back and disconnected at the joints, like some sad southern banjo player plucking out 'Dixie' on the last lonely string attached to the broken headstock of the last lonely possession he still holds dear.
And so the growling beast rushes blindly forward. And there's a forest growing through the minds of it's passengers. Starting at the base of the neck, scratching along the top of the skull, then bursting forth from the eye sockets in a fury of bloodied leaves and branches, scattering the only remaining vestige of knowledge about the first class compartment in a swirl of birch bark and brain matter. They'll scrub the walls, but the stench will remain. And they'll beat their chests and tear at their satin waistcoats, but the iron horse they fashioned rolls deeper and deeper still into the bowls of a land that never really begged for industry and over, and over, and over the rotting corpses of 100,000 underpaid and overworked individuals.
And someday that great beast will reach the sea, somewhere off the Western coast of the United States. And it'll plunge into the pacific ocean amidst a swirling cloud of steam and falling debris. The timber and iron will be plucked from the soil by their roots and fed whole to the wolves and to the owls. And grandfather will stare deep into his empty bottle and pull the few remaining leaves from his ancient tangled beard. The faceless corpses of animals slain will march their solemn way down to the rocky beaches, and they'll be shouting hallelujahs from their non-mouths, and tapping their tiny woodland paws in perfect time. And with one gesture the ghosts of 100,000 underpaid and overworked individuals will pick up their hammers and cast them to the deep.
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