[As the Stone Age's edges fall away,
a happy robot wheezes in the buzzard sunset.
Its outer studs blink like yellow doves, erratic.
Its interior is lacking.
It touches its forehead: the sky is falling.]
Took a dump, as if for the first time in my life.
It felt so good, working loose my clone.
WALL-E's Logbook: Took several weeks
to stop banging forehead with hand curled in an ice-cream-holding
claw-fist with old “clone” inserted into claw's exact inherent
cone-space like an actual ice-cream.
The “ice-cream” itched.
WALL-E's Logbook: Find it difficult to see the light.
Fuzzy all around. I savor the dark's strange marks, here and there.
WALL-E's Logbook: Nauseated, I ease in the wire of light;
the last of it, the last of the light, fucking beautiful.
I lay it into all the dead, into their brains,
threading it into empty homes. Empty clothes. Every stitch curdles.
Often there's very heavy rain.
A little coked up. Bruises better now.
Mouthbreathing, I savored your sext.
Happy, I ollied over mummies on makeshift skateboard, killin' it.
Their coughs could shatter windows, I tell ya!
Passed a kidney stone. A clang of fear.
But with the weight gone, I feel like a Phoenix, rising.
The sky is still oppressively attached to my forehead.
I laser it off; all access to the sky
is restricted, now.