robot girl
kisses her face to the air -
air kiss, air kiss,
eyes closed, countenance glazed
with a rapture mask.
She folds doom in her hands
sucking on the sweet edge of tears;
listens to Radiohead pour
and break their guitar notes.
Her response is electronic,
her howl is supersonic.
Metal spurs in her brain
cogitate cyber psychology;
pure super ego wrapped around
a vaccum of positrons.
Why does she have to have
the melancholy chip
in a world that loves smiley surfaces?
She has no smooth flesh,
only the iron bolts of a grimace.
air kiss, air kiss,
eyes closed, countenance glazed
with a rapture mask.
She folds doom in her hands
sucking on the sweet edge of tears;
listens to Radiohead pour
and break their guitar notes.
Her response is electronic,
her howl is supersonic.
Metal spurs in her brain
cogitate cyber psychology;
pure super ego wrapped around
a vaccum of positrons.
Why does she have to have
the melancholy chip
in a world that loves smiley surfaces?
She has no smooth flesh,
only the iron bolts of a grimace.
posted by burning moon at 3:15 PM
2 Comments:
She folds doom in her hands
sucking on the sweet edge of tears;
mmm... I do believe I've found a new favorite blog. Thank you not only for Nova's poem... but for bringing my attention to your blog. Hope to get to read much more of you here!
Hi Erin, it's good to see you here.
You're always welcome.
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