The Bread We Eat in Dreams

to the cherry-berry vanillacream sparklepop

and your pneumafuel efficiency will increase

according to the Yakihatsu formula (sigma3, 9 to the power of four)

Robots are like Mars: they need

girls.

Boys won’t do;

the memesoup is all wrong. They stomp

when they should kiss

and they’re none too keen

on having things shoved inside them.

You can’t convince them

there’s nothing kinky going on:

you can’t move the machine without IV interface

fourteen intra-optical displays

a codedump wafer like a rose petal

under the tongue,

silver tubes

wrapped around your bones.

It’s just a job.

Why do boys have to make everything

sound weird? It’s not a robot

until you put a girl inside. Sometimes

I feel like that.

A junkyard

the Company forgot to put a girl in.

I mean yeah.

My crystal fingers are laser-enabled

light comes out of me

like dawn. Bright orangecream

killpink