Robot Bitch

Robot bitch got me on the phone.

I’m all alone, picking at a bone,

sucking sinew, tonguing marrow;

outta work, outta dough, outta East Texas.

She axes a can of worms hooks my shadow.

Ask her over for a date.

Confess my syphilis has returned.

The house a crazy mess.

We can send for pizza, watch TV, masturbate.

I’m very entertaining when my nose falls off.

My spine’s twisted; my neck fell in the crick;

last night my seahorse like to drown

in a green death forty.

I have a problem with my breath.

When I shape the shit into words,

circuits empty, memories wipe,

qubits bugger. But you sound a hot-chip chick.

Bet you’d love up your logic gate a fist. Wash

my hands every new moon out back

in the shack. Hey,

why’n’cha c’mon over, feel my magnetism…

OK, bitch. Just remember,

next time you get the self-destruct itch:

what does not live never dead gets.

Willie Smith

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