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