An android beginning
“When the stars threw down […]” –William Blake
When she cut a small slit into the side of the leather bag, thin and soft like a rich glove, she found you
there: formation.
When form was not enough to offset how bad it feels to know she could inflict hurt on another. After the
blow, something blows back. A high wind that could knock her down.
When sand rises up and settles, making new crunchy affiliations with space.
When a stillness still. She still. These days.
When the return of breath. She licks back, tongue into the slit. Where she finds you. Invert the look and
her face covered in delicate suede. A sand colored entrance.
When light leaps into the vinyl glove. Latex fingers. Underneath are the nails of secret dazzle. From the
earth, from the dirt itself, spears are thrown back up to the heavens.
When an android beginning is like hidden candy spilling out of her bag and you can’t stop staring. The
waterfalls that undermine you. She repeats that she doesn’t want to get rid of affect, and the way she says
it is: “Don’t take away my body.”
Middle
The machine’s middle is not that different from its beginning. But instead of a she, there are many of her.
“Oh, I wanted to sing that information” she says. And she says. And she says.
One part of she fits neatly into another she, and that she providing a crucial component to another she. So
locked together they constitute the machine’s constant movements. If you isolate a she, you can watch her
make her small motion, her one wing flapping against a skin no longer there.
End
The problem begins if an automaton takes on a lover, and both diminishes and multiplies if she takes on
multiple lovers. In being interested in the work, she can be lost in reverie, and cut through their soft parts.
Those who encounter the automaton with regularity are encouraged to shield themselves. Body armor for
protection. Sensitizing gels to irritate and therefore keep the automaton alert.
When she sings that information, alright. If she sings that information, is this ok?
There is a kernel rattling. If the sound stops, it is due to bloating. If the machine is too full, a she will be
switched out and enough space will be made. Sound passes through the honey of the merged accounts.
. . . . . . (is this ok)
“When the stars threw down […]” –William Blake
When she cut a small slit into the side of the leather bag, thin and soft like a rich glove, she found you
there: formation.
When form was not enough to offset how bad it feels to know she could inflict hurt on another. After the
blow, something blows back. A high wind that could knock her down.
When sand rises up and settles, making new crunchy affiliations with space.
When a stillness still. She still. These days.
When the return of breath. She licks back, tongue into the slit. Where she finds you. Invert the look and
her face covered in delicate suede. A sand colored entrance.
When light leaps into the vinyl glove. Latex fingers. Underneath are the nails of secret dazzle. From the
earth, from the dirt itself, spears are thrown back up to the heavens.
When an android beginning is like hidden candy spilling out of her bag and you can’t stop staring. The
waterfalls that undermine you. She repeats that she doesn’t want to get rid of affect, and the way she says
it is: “Don’t take away my body.”
Middle
The machine’s middle is not that different from its beginning. But instead of a she, there are many of her.
“Oh, I wanted to sing that information” she says. And she says. And she says.
One part of she fits neatly into another she, and that she providing a crucial component to another she. So
locked together they constitute the machine’s constant movements. If you isolate a she, you can watch her
make her small motion, her one wing flapping against a skin no longer there.
End
The problem begins if an automaton takes on a lover, and both diminishes and multiplies if she takes on
multiple lovers. In being interested in the work, she can be lost in reverie, and cut through their soft parts.
Those who encounter the automaton with regularity are encouraged to shield themselves. Body armor for
protection. Sensitizing gels to irritate and therefore keep the automaton alert.
When she sings that information, alright. If she sings that information, is this ok?
There is a kernel rattling. If the sound stops, it is due to bloating. If the machine is too full, a she will be
switched out and enough space will be made. Sound passes through the honey of the merged accounts.
. . . . . . (is this ok)
