Enter via a dark tunnel
the wild furnace
of one on top of another –
in a second each replaces another
by tumbling down of numbers
in towers,
of electronic thunder
flashing signals
to each ‘another’
as rivals in battle
between
merger and take-over;
storms
high up over London
pitching formulas
into the morning rush hour
and
in
a
trance
bet against themselves
all spontaneous and specialist
buying
while falling
a long way and back again
singing to themselves “amen”
(even amidst the raging storm)
in
the
friction of numbers
every aspect of their life living
looks down on us, muted
spewed forth from heated tunnel –
each step a march concentrated
and without thinking
in a glass eye of blind tempo,
tools ready, eyes ahead,
weather-beaten,
we hold the weight of one ton on our backs
backing them