Wednesday, September 12, 2012

BICENTENNIAL MAN

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
been nitpicked?

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 –

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.

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