Lie Down Spasticus  

  

There’s a tensile edge to us;

alloy lightweight

extra strong accessories to our limbs that would

otherwise collapse

with intermittent jestful ease, to leave us looking drunk

and disorderly

as we pitch and flounder in search of a foothold 

claw toes

fight for balance, grapple against non-committed joints

that thoughtlessly

lock at one-eighty; can’t sit down, or ninety; can’t stand.

We smile,

‘though the effort leaves us exhausted, slow motion

mechanical movements

become the choreographed burr and rust of just being;

metal fatigue

let’s go to bed, undressed to titanium in robotica we perform

Meccanno porn

and not even hydraulic suspension or heavy duty lubrication  

can prevent

those squeaks, singing out louder than bed springs, when

we rasp

and grind each other to filings.  There’s a metal edge to us,

we can’t run but we’re fucking.

©2007  P.A.Levy

First published by Gutter Eloquence  2008

The DNA of Carbon

The history of grass, 

as churned over into putrid mud,

sets the whistling scythes to work

through freshly ploughed fields.

Crushing the wildness out of flowers  

birdsong lonesome blues 

fades to silence.

Howitzer messengers, harbingers of dark yesterdays;

soundbite words from wisdoms, rarefied beads 

of dazzling deceptions.  Play follow the leader.

Hypnotic.  Catatonic. Trance don’t dance

when you dance in straight lines. Let’s be beetles; 

yeah yeah yeah, let’s be worms.  Compostable truth; 

let’s do the squirm, take your partners for the country lust. 

Return to sender via last post, they’re autumnally challenged

at half mast and will silently  

eventually

rot away.  

Amen.  

© 2006 P.A.Levy

first published by A Cappella Zoo 2008