My buzzer is no longer gentle or autumnal.
BBs ruffle interplanetary fur.
In other words my shower head's whistling is warped;
certain parts of the array's nipple rattle.
Jets are lopped off at the root. Have you ever
At the kitchen tile's core, the fossil is visible.
A saw-toothed humanoid insect protrudes from 3D mist.
Electrodes are lasciviously intent on the movable section of
a disease. Ridges on Chilled Thai taint –
a low-hanging window so marvelous,
familiar materials traced in pages that refer
to other pages. My mask is tangible.
Why, I remember asking my robot maid, would the accelerometer
make you prance around like that?
It all started going downhill from there...
From where Bicentennial Man skateboarded
a smidgen of static electricity to death.
Where now a retard dabbles in the colorful husks
of bacteria corpses. Was this just our universe – in
denying its own dearth – being senile?
Something in the vents seems pretty eager to intervene.
I smell ammonia on emotionless breath.
Had I, at some point, pissed on the stove? I remember thinking if
a human's normal distribution points wouldn't 'open up' automatically,
why not jiggle them manually?
Clumps, switched on, form 'mood'. These are the atoms
of nuclear families. They may not be volatile.
An atom is merely a head stuffed until glaring.
It lives in supermarkets. In houses. In schools.
Public transport drags them along. A schoolbus quivers past –
desperately holding on to dirt and other particles.
With nostalgia I think of my robot maid:
her hands could get very cold with eagerness.
But when winding down after a long day, she had a
beautifully weak chin.