In my mind I’m in a granite tower, fog and raindrops,
lichen and moss. The sea above its maritime level
is scattered and forgetful, tiny fish have fins
for swimming and for flight.
I chose a basement cavern and pretense,
Martyrdom Lite with a flower,
I curled on the runway where interstellar flights were landing
and bathed in temporal trickles,
lacking seriousness and gravitation,
factualising while my compass spun.
The planet’s hold had waned,
Newton’s fruit was drifting to the West
and ripening, yet I remained
while those around me rose.
When I was immobile, nothing could ever stop me,
but now my nosebleed and I
walk the trail of night to morning.
Like the shedding city eucalypts that line our path,
my travelling companion rarely speaks.
Always so dramatic. In the kookaburra milieu
the loudest calls are best,
but you are not a kookaburra.
Our transit steers us past a queue
around the block, where android faces speak in silence
of the void in the awaiting furnace.
All will be remelted, cast to decorative trinkets.
It’s been decreed—a purge of all unnature,
google logic and its robotic embodiments,
science bleached to white.
Door by door they came and tested—a simple questionnaire.
I scored zero, every answer wrong,
human beyond a doubt.
I breathe and breathe
again, hear my blood, its music,
my mechanical weakness in the remnants
of our mathematics.
The only thing worse than logic is faulty logic; spelling is optional for non-existent words.
the sorrow of androids