The Technological Singularity Blues

 
 
An electric voice is what tickled my groove.
 
It bit my bolts to trembling rust
on the fleshing coat that flailed my wire.
 
& it’s in the wake of an age
that brains this stage.
 
Our invisible eyes on unseen highs,
winging glance of lines in {sigh}
by glassing a face to hunt the brim.
 
Adorned in the scorn of an hourglass gaze:
I wax an ax down my heart to wane
& dog a cog ‘til blind with pain
 
                        (where your feisty pink ribbons
                         match my blue releases)
 
but my hollows hum with a brutal thrum.
 
Fingers the hardened crouch of a harsh winter Sun.
 
Whets free this spark that haunts my lungs
when I feel too much for clocking numb.
It's on the nightsky wheeze
where it ticks the sand of torch-on-skin.
 
           (Soft messages etched-in-itch).
 
This lingering dithers on branded dreams
as the screaming distance swallows us whole:
I am slithering raw from your smoking craw...
you are sang to glass on my mountain pass.
 
I am holding dear your sizzling near.
 
Laugh & gaze this gibbering age
& face the grace of a crawling mend.
 
The winged blur of a glancing sigh.
 
The fiery voice of my fleshing groove.