87 octane runs in our veins and propels us across the earth.

We shoot forward; we roar; we soar.

We are the motionable-mighty, motile, engined, tail-piped, turboed, technoed. We drag dead carbon from the ground, we race upon the earth, we fill the air. We fly the sky; we reign on high.

We rocket through the great waters, zoom over the high mountains, blast through the gorgeous firmament.

We gawk, ogle, probe and souvenir.

We are free — from atrophy, locality and gravity.


What miracle here?

What science there?

What necromancy — what no mere slight of hand —  what awesome slight of time and space?

This, just this.

By crude oil we moil. By black gunk we are fleetingly royal.

We have sucked the black blood from the earth; we have shot it straight into our societal-industrial veins; thus even more than before, we are the paragon of the animals, wear a high and dizzy crown, drive a rattling carriage trailing smoke, the grim castle ahead.

Oil toil, roil and boil, wind and soil and sea we spoil.

Though the dark we plummet, thick black smoke trailing behind.

A world-wide boom; a clacking oily loom, what high and lofty king will we entomb?


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