All posts in Writeoff

The microwave reads twelve thirty,
in one minute it will read twelve thirty
plus one more,
unmindful, it will flicker
again, passing through uncertainty to
register twelve thirty-two,
by which time my plastic halo
will have puffed its cheeks and,
full to popping, forced its vapour tongue
to trickle down my throat
and into lungs.

Do you think we would ever
have seen the day where a microwave
might turn around and say,
“My back aches, I cannot possibly
think while in such pain,
my brain is numb,
my feelings caught, sucked
out of me. Please, comfort me?”
Or would it simply tip
forward, until gravity gripped,
and wrenched the plug.

I pray the latter.

A man once said
robots feel,
he was a brash man
firey and to the quick,
and to the end a sad man,
I wished him well.

Oh me, the world is saved
and the microwave reads
twelve thirty-three.

He leans where legs would splinter,
eyes easy on passing peons,
but for dark blue armour,
creased and rusted with mustard
stains, smile would slip
apologies or accusations
at the ash in his hair,
the tape on his glasses.

Old iron creaks
at a wave of maidens
freed from towers
by the power of pink,
the dragons have all retired
to pill cups,
in eggs they dream
of flutter and fire.

does not say a word
when the candle won’t burn,

never wonders; if
she fears, he falls,
flaming.

He stands, simple
tunes gushing from his lips
the twin beasts are before him,
evasive under a layer of grease.

(did the first tentative tap
bring the devil’s voice booming?)

The cogs fall,
springs unwind in supplication,
a thousand destinations
lie in a tangled heap.

The matchsticks catch easily,
heat dries the flecks on his forehead
and in the woof of the warp
a ghost disperses within the carbon.