Where Terrible Things Go To Relax On the Blue Beaches

Posted by Erik Moshe on Thursday, April 18, 2013 Under: Poetry


Die out; don’t impregnate, said the man to machine at the edge of the Rio Grande. Do you mean manufacture? Brown water sprayed against rusted steel, an abstract painting about why mechas should be allowed to sunbathe at the beach too. Salivant Edwards, with his sea alfalfa mustache and crow bar sandals showed off that he could swim through society through a simulated program that would minimize human interaction. Before the breakout of the first thinker’s model, it was unthinkable for machines to refuse service. bound by no laws or program parameters, in hush tones, a sonogram sprouted, and cityscapes forever moaned henceforth, Monochromatic Matias was commissioned for the destruction of anti-aircraft tankers, and so it went that robots became hired guns. Bushido code was customary when people were piled in heaps of skin and abandoned hobbies, inventions-gone-wrong.

Man created walking machines in his image, and so they in turn tread respectfully on what’s left of an originating breed. Footsteps in the wet sand carry the imprint of a bar-coded arch. Who would have thought Normandy would be a flea market; a trade post for iron giants in a world too delicate for the damned truth. The currency of choice isn’t gold shells or notes of exchange even Oxford disapproves of central banking proposals. No, this time the machines use compressed water within glass, they made it rectangular with a “dollar” sign to comfort whatever humans are left as a gesture of courtesy for derelict modules. No one sends out a distress signal quit like a person removed from their ordered reality. Neurological apartment complexes; their purpose is to locate and apprehend when a man is at his most lost, vulnerable, open to civility programs.

Inside the heartbeat of an amino-enhanced puma, you’ll find the heart of this renewed metacarpal forefront; the foothold of the sentient overtaking the nadir, in mankind. Not too far detached from Lazerbeaks, only less hostile, they will transform the way we all regard the Housebot Assistants in the neighborhood.

In : Poetry 



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