supermachine
                        meth aka JW McNichol 

Somewhere, in the shapeless husk,
a light flickers and suddenly flares into luminescence.
Circuits in huge computers interrogate and compile.
In response, radars, cold and piercing, power up,
scouring, burning their surroundings in the 
quest for information.
Somewhere, in the dark, a turbine gives a feeble spin.
Hardwired commands, BIOS algorithims, complex formulae,
all hurtle down the bluegreen strings at the speed of light,
goading aged and dust-ridden machinery.
Wheels turn, huge cables buckle and stretch and squeal.
Struts and girders whine in protest, warping and twisting.
Aeroducts suck gases through labryinthine corridors,
expelling them suddenly through exhaust ports.
A single command reaches the vast compression chamber,
increasing pressure through myriad manifolds.
Liquids strange and foriegn ooze through mammoth filters.
Pumps begin to slam open and shut.
Valves spasm, shunting fluids through convoluted pipes and hoses.
Relays in dim alcoves, hidden corners,
send the startup information further down into the supermachine.
In answer, a rumble mounts, shaking the foundations of the construct.
The cables flex and bend more smoothly, the gears mesh and whirr,
Sruts turn and click, girders force machinery into place.
The computers issue new commands, loaded from an ageless memory.
Turbines cough fitfully, then give a high-pitched cry.
The pumps beat faster.
The pressure mounts.
The cables and wheels spin and twist in perfect harmony.
The struts and cable perform their assigned tasks without flaw.
The processors combine, compile, assimliate, then render down 
the feedback flowing from their systems.
Gases rush in and out in torrents.
The radars flood the computers with data plundered from their environents,
submitting it to the grinding logic factories.
At last, the machine is reawakened.
At last, the machine, after countless years of slumber, is tuned.
The gases are released from their pressure in a deafening blast.
Flames hurl forth from the depths of the grinderies.
With a silent grace,
gossamer membranes expand from the girders and struts.
At last,
after years of cold inactivity,
the supermachine takes flight.