His sprung-wound tongue was better than vinyl
ether; than any old erzatz punch-card.

He burned like boiler plate. His odd-shaped skull
was full of pneumatic tubes. He offered

up a spacial code, synthetic virus,
shrunken to chrome beads on his fingernails.

His cock, its own clockwork apparatus,
naturally throbbed. Silver cooled the details

of his past. He said that the beast-pawed sphinx
was his mother. He said that he could see

in the dark. He drank your breath down, hovered
over you like a hummingbird. What syncs

up with a thrunge breast-plate? History
is a curse. Memory a dirty word.