Everything looks and sounds like a John Carpenter movie
Synchronised movement, O Fortuna on the last bassoon
In a hidden bazaar the last bastion of culture, the last orange ashes
Of the old world which passed us quicker than a fast train does
Dove white the eyes of the light denied who worked in mines
Or lived deep inside the portals to the world’s fire
They smile, discussing Rachmaninoff and Handel’s Messiah
The great fire, the greek lyre Apollo lied to acquire, Rome’s triumph
The Nile’s heliacal rising, the orisons sung to the almighty in forgotten time
Still are heard, echoing from the refectory to the factory future, the ore refinery
Permanent fire a harmful eyesore, they will sleep no more, abhorring disorder
They keep still the rituals of their formers, clad in finery dining at set times
Discussing what is tasteful, what prevents strife, the knife of their forebears
Like something from a heraldic device divides a cake into slices, next come pies
The cream piled high like a tree eclipsed entirely by clinging snow, licked into
Glowing after a meal in such company, the result of which saw me near slumped
A lump swollen with food, buttons open rudely to fumigate me from this state.
Alchemisland 
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