vs. archives

Workers VI 

With a helmet swept off the head the strap cutting into the throat
Weighing you down to the earth’s lap you’re not her son
The petrol field is not mother earth but you’ve lain backwards
Over clods of earth lit up like ores from the all-enveloping
In this artificial heaven paraffin film huge precious stones
In the disconsolate garden of the pleasures cowl of Midas
Covering you tin man on the road to the emerald city shoved away
By the eruption in a stupor on your back with the vague hope of getting a heart

You contemplate in an involuntary unproductive second
Of motor paralysis but with consciousness preserved
A condition from which in principle you’re deprived in fact for you it is
Forbidden without you’re knowing it’s forbidden and you’re deprived
Simultaneously in a semi-fetal position and fallen on your back
On the road to Damascus you…