by Joshua Converse05 Jul 2013
The arcane punch and whirr and strike,
pinned paper butterflies to tattoo,
kill king and create crone alike,
moves smooth along to pages new.
Men in hats who wore suspenders,
sat in sepia scenes,
punching fat black circles down,
pulling grinding what they rendered,
the boiling industry of dreams,
a simple stick and ding and sound.
Of grinding teeth and grinding gears,
and great grating gates of words,
fly flowing forth those phantom fears ,
scatter scrape and scramble away with knocks and knaps like flocks of birds.