Author Information
The vines of my machine
The vines of my machine curl fine around my vocal cords
In primordial glory.
The bogs of my wants clogged its cogs with blood and soot,
But complexities have seized my hopeful monster.
New sprockets blossom smaller, cleaner, sharper,
With hairtrigger flytraps.
But your atavistic altruism won’t
Feed me to the gears of the game I invented
Its only prey in my lifeless silent soil is inside
But if you sit too close, it can smell your sweat.
