It is an explosive machine, this corporate engine. And the shrapnel flies everywhere. It covers the world and leaves it’s refuse in space, floating seemingly forever. It is a bee line from source to sink, from the factory to the hands and homes of the multitudes, to the curb. It never does not end? Our culture is built on the explosion, the entropic miasma of metal grinding on metal, of synthetic this and that. It is drunk on black liquid stuff, the malted milk of industry. The umbilical cord: pump to tank, pill to mouth, hand to pocket, eye to electric eye. It never does not end? Oh, and the lowly plant, our sustenance, oh, the lowly plant.