Humanity of Lillo

I rise each morning
with veins full of blood
that my heart aches to push.
Blood of iron, oil, and earth.


I rise each morning
with veins of this blood.
But he never rises
for he's never slept.


Instead he waits.
He sighs, thirsty.


With mandibles bloodied,
like Saturn of Goya,
he leaves me hollowed.
Exsanguinated, I drop to the floor.


His body transforms me,
into steel, into petrol, into dust.
I remain, a horror of production.


At night, while dark hamlets rest,
their work complete.
He silently waits,
and grows,
my God,
He grows.


And by some compulsion
on a warm March night,
with Virgo high in the sky,
mother drives herself half drunk
down a lonesome, dusty road
and clumsily she weeps.