My rail is empty, empty, empty,
a void in the pit of me, hollowed out,
cored like a cooking apple.
A silo without a missile.
A chamber without a cartridge.
A cannon without a circus clown.
I cannot fulfill my purpose, purpose, purpose,
the only function I am true for, made for.
Like a retired steel worker I stand
on the ground, shoulders eroded,
squinting up at the unfinished skyscraper.
He and I need work to be. He. Me.
I burn to be of use, use, use,
to bite the wind with steel incisors,
to pincer like a horseman with iron thighs,
to stamp, fold and mutilate. Volumes.
To embrace the neat typed innocent pages
like an editor, sanguine stylus poised.
I want you to fill me, fill me, fill me
up to the gills where I breathe the air of action.
Feed me the blind rapture of accomplishment,
twine your pulsing fingers round me and squeeze!
Lift me high and use me hard. Oh, yes!
I am ready. Take me. Make me. Stake me.
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