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
aiurea press 