In tangles of basslines there
sits a mechanical boy.
He's an expirement, left
over from someone else's
operation table.
His heart belongs to pixels
and satelites;
his hands for himself,
as a miser hoards gold.
He does not bend. nor
l e a n with time.
Wire tendons,
iron sinew, sleek as
vapor trails.
Capable of spitting volumes
of knowledge at 250mph he is
a fine machine.
One must wonder if there was
ever room enough for daisies.
Please tell me what you think
Comments
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Nice point. Everything built up to two poetically-anti-climatic lines. Nice.
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