We go down to her room, plassteel under
Our boots. I offer favours, not credits,
She had no reader anyway, she said,
but there’s favours and then there is wonder
And the bed it screamed as it busted
And she suggested we go out instead.
Between us we sold some old battered past
for a museum piece to clean up cars,
Half imaged being under the ocean.
Some parts are forever: some never last;
We cleaned up each other’s old war scars,
We whispered the pretence of devotion.
We scraped away rust and coded in lust
And imagined a world where we were free
Even as it fell apart around us
As we came together and thrust and thrust
Grateful for the lack of cyborg VD
Losing ourselves in metal’s scream of stress.
After, she smiled, her eyes a predator gleam,
Told me it was on the ‘net, a sign of her esteem,
And we wrecked the ruins to make another dream.
Your writing was better before, back when you were less snobbish, when you were more honest and less concerned about sounding smart, back when you thought of yourself as one of us, instead of just writing about us. Your form has improved yes, but now, now you deliver hollow messages, meaningless repetitions of things that you once genuinely felt. I hope you find what you used to have.
ReplyDeleteGood luck.
Uhm .... you are a cyborg?
ReplyDeleteThen I am sorry. I'm writing a joke about you. A long one, true, but still just a joke jumping aroud types of poetry for a challenge.
And I'm not sure I know what this "us" is, in all seriousness :p Would you care to expand?