Machine

A gray tint lays over everything I see. An old machine breaks its coat of rust.
The gears wail like aching bones. An old machine, yet one I trust.
So long ago I pulled that lever, and as I do now my hand pierces the dust.
This machine embraces me like hatred, like hunger, like lust.
It plugs into my skull; the binding cords pump in secretions of filth and juices of a malady. Washing away my entity.

With trembling limbs I twist as this neglected affliction consumes.
Numbing restraints hold me down, and the machine’s cold arms caress the key.
Its indifferent hand pushes inside me and gropes around. Gears move closer and ravage my hands, pulling flesh with them as they systematically turn.
The machine moans in satisfaction as it snaps bones and splashes itself auburn.

The arm rips away my-abysmal-self.
It forces itself down my throat, as my limbs become ribbons of red.
A lion and its helpless goat…
A hundred tubes impel a serum, which flows so hard that I rip apart.
My old machine drags me away and makes love to my dying heart.
And tomorrow I’ll do it all again.


//Artwork by Me//