Means Of Production

Oil. Dense black oil, sticky and congealing surrounds and engulfs it. It, slithering in and out, steady and strong - black tar cloaking and smearing itself along the smooth sides of its shaft. Black streaks fading fast along the polished bronze of the piston as it revolves on gears, pumping, in and out. Its blunt ended head disappearing with subtle hiss into the gaping void that encircles it now, releases it now, and thus lies open again. Awaiting its tender caress.

Down there, in the gap, the nothing, a sudden mixing is afoot. Bitter and acrid vapours hiss and gurgle, subtle and secret in their movements. They swirl in tortured spirals in the enclosed darkness. They dance haughtily with the air as partner, entwining and encircling it. Smothering it. Drawn in close one hears a soft sigh, a moan escapes the vapid breath before a spark comes down from shackles high ,and dismembers, and remoulds them both . And with the breaking and the splitting. And with the reforming and refiring - there is a burst of energy. Which despite such paradoxical origins drives back the cylinder, the bronze piston retreats. A breath, slight, in the void. Before the piston returns again, untiring, and the endless cycle goes on.

Pistons bind to ratcheting cogs that coil and revolve. Cogs upon cogs, large and small. They spin, some slow, and others faster - moving without will, aimless but for their forebears who drive them. Thus they drive onwards and spin their children thus. On and on.

The press hangs malevolent above the sheet below. Glittering softly, twinkling in the harsh arc light that surrounds and illuminates. The metal seems to quiver in the soft, imperceptible flicker. The press hangs above, large and blunt and dull. It too quivers, but more in anticipation, and in quivering delight of past conquest. With a jerk the weighted blades descend, falling fast in a streaming streak of dark. It scythes the clear metal in a bitter screech. A circle is discharged. A hole remains.

The blunted, crushing maul follows, driving the separated mass down onto the mould. Bedding it and bending it into contortions as it whimpers pitifully. The press recedes and reveals its handiwork. A bowl? A cup perhaps? Or just another material to be rent and remade as part of the continuing process. As part of a larger machine.

A man gently picks up the metal piece and gently rubs its surface, removing that sooty grime that smeared it in its birth. He gazes softly into its cool depths, seeing himself reflected in the planed mirror that arcs in his hands. The light above seeming to wrap around his head in a radiating circle. His eyes, contrasted, seem dark and crinkled in their differing hues. Twinkling. He tosses the piece into a bin below and looks up to see another coming toward him off the belt. He smiles. He looks at the machine. His