“Crypter, crypter, crypter.” “Clear.” It is right
here. The whorl in my ear. The whirl in my
dread. A smear of Morning Star by starlight.
A touch of evil, perhaps. Which is why
it is hard to believe in it. Evil.
I’ve taught it to sit, roll over, play dead.
I read it Shakespeare. It has no menstrual
cycles, though it leaks. What flows is blood red
and grease. Gears. Oil. It’s queer innards. But “it”?
Designed to look female. I’ve been inside.
Touched its cogs. Tightened screws. It just says, “shit,
man, a machine is a machine …” Its cried.
I know that. Tears are also tears. I know
there is more here than chrome and an afro.
Metal decays. Metal decays until
it is gone. A fine mist of rust settles
over the day. Last nightfall I was ill.
I groaned when I moved. My cogs and cables
complained. Afterlife: nothing much happens.
Here at the quiet limit of the word
argon rises, five-folded mists. Humans
deeply love magic, but hate the wizard.
As if dark science leads to a hereafter
other than what we’ve made it. Afterlife:
nothing much happens. It is my nature
to rust. Decay cuts through me like a knife.
Death has just only one dream: to conspire
to make us all into dust flakes on fire.