I pull up to the factory where
they make the heads. Spare
heads. How do they adhere
to neck-stumps? And where
do they dispose of your
old head creased with wear?
The front door's locked. Walk
round the loading dock, back
to a door ajar a crack. Slip in,
call "Hello?" Two girls appear,
offer to show me the vat, the line.
Standard now, the tour and smile,
for management hungers to dispel
that sinister industrial
whiff of Frankenstein.
How can a basic right be wrong?
Surely changing my own mind
isn't some gothic transplant hell.
Deep in the containment pond
The dead heads knell.
