Do you think they're fake,
Blade Runner? Do you think
they're incapable of real kindness?
Look at the garish thrush, caused by
realism doodling deep
into the replicant's mouth.
Automotive, your crotch soaked through
with Chinese takeout, rising
on a parking lot from the deep.
Viaduct cables cutting light from a moon not
unromantic in her body –
fluorescent G-spot nebula.
The affliction of a
porn star Ninja Turtle, its shell
an improbable gag for a larger underground.
In silent reflection press
a synthetic aroma, cook pajama pants
with an eating disorder that
loads a fast food chain's grotesque finger,
empathy burping blank.
A nervous breakdown in your Stormtrooper shell
rattling empty because loose BBs are the devil in you.
Ritual is cement. Curb all that's missing
from being nice. Redeem yourself, jerk.