The Machine

All that he does is chip away.

Each day he sticks to his routine:

Putting the pieces on.

Building a big machine.

He ran out of room inside his room

and so he moved it all outside.

Now it's a bit too big.

Now it's a mile wide.

The family vans across the desert

follow signs to park and stare.

Nobody says hello.

Nobody knows he's there.

They just look at the blinking lights and greebles,

interlocking arms of steel.

And they think:

Nothing could be so big.

Nothing could be so real.

They think:

One million springs

and spinning things. It's quite a view.

We have no clue...

What does it do?

That's the beauty of it--

It doesn't do anything.

He made his own night-vision goggles.

Now he lurks inside the frame.

Perfecting it from within.

Forgetting his own name.

All that he knows is that it needs him.

All it knows is he needs it.

Every piston.

Every single little bit.

The government people in black helicopters

try to snoop around.

I'm so sorry, but he needs the extra parts.

He takes the choppers down.

Now there are tanks on the horizon,

asking what are his demands?

Not one of them understands.

Nobody understands.

All the megaphones scream:

One million gears.

Perhaps our fears are coming true.

What does it do?

What does it do?

That's the beauty of it--

It doesn't do anything.

Lost in solipsism

he then slowly pulls a lever

which sets off a mechanism

which does nothing whatsoever

but the nothing that it does

negates the everything we know

because it's screaming "Just because!"

because it's neither friend or foe

and so we label it a menace

or a grandiose work of art.

From its finale to its genesis

we slowly pull it all apart.

That's the beauty of it--

It doesn't do anything, do anything.

Doesn't do anything, doesn't do anything.