Hum, for lack of a song

Industrial Nomad - the shiver-shinned gypsy bluster-blown through smokestacks and red brick ruins, blackened

A cast of one.  On another inroad, another shift of frame and through a heavy sky crashes, red-waddled, the rooster god.

As it is industry, the rooster god is headless and spouts in great ash flecked fountains the arterial blood that once powered its tiny seat of omniscience.  In the sea of blood one might find some sign of sentience, some indication that the powerful heart of the titanic fowl sprays its contents with purpose and divine ingenuity for now the scene is painted red as a fur coat and draping its drippings as if curtains spread from stack to stack and all about the soot has fallen flat and been pulled from the air and the industrial nomad who, for lack of better occupation, begins to clean the side stacks with a lone mop and bucket, or perhaps a toothbrush, or perhaps a zamboni.  Unlikely though it is, she soon has clotted all great gouts and in rusted piles stacked each platlette patty for the vultures of midday and morning-after to take up until, like a "turned" hotel room, all that is left is the uninhabited hollows of all these artifacts strewn about