At dawn the facility struggles to wake,
under a white mackerel sky,
uneasy buildings
veined with silvered pipes,
and the secure eyes of cameras watch,
couched in nests of razor-wire.
Wisps of pale chemicals
drift from birdless terminals,
over the illuminated grandstand
of pellucid morning traffic.

Certain floors hold certain wonders,
darkening and dying,
the negative experiments
and grim dynasty
of medical experimentation.
Trying to breathe,
spiked with needles,
mammal nostrils flared
in base fear and expectation.

Lights in windows,
brief white shadows moving
in the dirt of deliberation.
Capturing samples in ephedrine icebergs
prevented from melting .
The sick wax and wane of life,
playing a heartless God,
at the hands of remote instigation.

In this grim museum
of clinical experimentation,
there is no bird of paradise flying
above the casual accidents,
above the malignant moves,
where the evil of injustice screams
loud in beautiful ears,
and listens to unconventional music
amid the dripping of heroic, bloody tears.

We can sit in the street and weep,
deep in the politics of denial.
Play the game of being wronged
as priceless life is cheaply dying.
We can stand and bravely deplore it all,
in the face of corporate lying.
And hope for the comet of truth
with it's trail of retributive abuse,
to please come flying.