Late at night, when the factories power down,
I can still hear, the rumbling of water below,
the arteries carry the flow, because
Cities rise and cities grow,
a promised progress keeps them all aglow.
They breathe, they breed, and thrive,
the myth of a future’s what keeps them all alive.
And when their health is down,
this teleological e-vo-lu-tion rebounds,
on the American town.
One night, with the infernal rhythms behind me,
life carried on, with perpetual fuel for the city.
Air’s exchanged, in the ironclad lungs of industry.
For we are, just the microbiota inside,
there’s no place without life we can hide.
Autonomous thoughts, in a concrete skull,
cyclical organic growth, makes the land seem full, and you feel the pull
Le Corbusier is dead, and his grids stretch throughout.
Watch them fall from grace, before we’re wiped out
of the atlas, you’ll see.
A ghost in a lost country.