This one goes out to the girls I’ve loved
and all the girls I’ve told I could one day see myself loving
but never did
goes like this
(the beat)
Let freedom write
Julius C. bought a python nightlight
sent that bitch redeye, on the overnight
(kraits in crates)
to his main squeeze, who disagreed
but the crowd’s appeased
she’s shakin at the knees
gobs of venom circumvallating the snowbit chalet of her ovaries
I’m all for conspiracy theories
this one’s got letters of authenticity
and it goes on and on and on and onanism
on and on and on and onanism
I dance disco
blow over my impediments
write poetry on weekdays
got grandpa rollin over sediment
he wished I’d invested in a career in medicine
instead I’m dreamin up sublime freestylin
like my name is Tommy Edison
my pencil’s prehensile
words come easy as fillin in a stencil
aint no money so I drape myself in tinsel
a Christmas tree that dabbles in Scrabble
a prince among rabble
my Bingos commingle
the speaker’s bumpin my single
everything’s fine
‘til a fine dime says “Yo Kris Kringle,
Pass me the Pringles”
and it goes on and on and on and onanism
on and on and on and onanism
The first part of an investigative series by one-time journalism major, full-time Bulb Android affairs correspondent, your J.B.S., embedded in the not-so distant Chicago future, feeling really, really anxious about all of this right now, unsure as to how long he will be able to remain undetected by recreated retinas scanning, always scanning, desperately hoping for redemptive Pulitzer consideration, if nothing else the Goldsmith Prize, put in a good word for me, Eli, wherever you are, can one lose one's mind if there are no other minds in which to misplace it?
More reports forthcoming.
THIS WEEK IN ANDROIDS
An Android hoists a tinier Android onto his synthetic lap. He loads a book document onto his Droid phone/jukebox/passport/warhead-locator device with the hand that is not supporting the child’s hollow spinal column. He begins to read aloud, “Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.” The child is soon defunct, settled into imperturbable sleep mode. The Android, smiling at his recognition of nuance, lifts the tuft of hair on the back of his cranium to reveal the thin entryport, parted like grey, ragged lips, into which he reinserts the Droid device as his eyes roll into the back of his head and his nose snarls. The device settles in with a satisfying click that coincides with the mushy sound of gelatin getting pressed against a tight space where it has only miniscule creases in which to diversify its mass-shape.
Quietly, he unbuttons his Henley shirt and carefully, knowingly, prods his nipple forth into the aperture of the dozing machine. He cannot wait, but would wait forever, to feel the pinch of human teeth.
Droids do.
Androids do Droids.
Humans.
