I don’t want to be born. I want to be
made-up from a world of cryptic but bad
grammar. Make me bionic and hungry
for spare parts. Ink pens for lips, a keypad
smile. Where I walk loose change shall fall. I err,
for I struggle with my opposable
thumbs every day. It is in my nature
not to have any Nature in me. “Null”
is a good word. So is “methyl,” “sour”
and “carbon-based life-form.” Shall I compare
myself to a sodden day? I am damp
as a void. I mean, it takes an odd hour
to fill the wet gap in me. Err or err,
either way I’m as blank as a headlamp.