What connects us is the mechanoid process, a feel for mathematica and puppetry.

       Bio(r)evolution is a viscous spider.
       We sicken & weave in our cocoons.

Mutant. Erotica. Terror. These pixels are haunted. We are riblocked in this circular citadel.  Some might say we are filaments, a spot on the macula, synaptic disruption.

       [No virus was ever this pretty.]

The contours of knees turned
                                   
                      inwards. Teledildonics + folklore + amino acids. Doppelganger
                                   
                      pop-art, nonhuman [?]                    projective fantasies

of men wearing girls’ bodies, tethered

at the root, body = zero               prostheses, a little cellular

[copy] born under

                the sign of X.

                Concave, convex. Urban
                                       names

                                                      that don’t figure

                in your scissor-blade psychoanalysis.

                We are wearing this apparatus.

Cold-clones.  Flatscreen

                          mystics.

(We promise you this is [hyper]reality.)

                          [   ] now in uncanny matrices.

Look, changeling.
No one would suspect

the monsterskin rustling
beneath your latex fleshtones.

The hiss of air
in your helmet when you mimic

the tic in a woman’s eye.
Rogue genes

are not the ash in your mechanical boots,
the schizophrenic scattering of light

from the side you can’t touch.
Accidental kleptomaniac,

your magnetic fingers
wicked at the pulse of a man’s throat.

Now, the signal is set to vibrate.
You are outmoded anatomy.

Look, prototype.
You are destined to survive

on hostile planets.
This ruin should be easy

as a saltwater catastrophe,
as red fruit crushed against a woman’s lips.

Your rutting mechanism.
Your surface etching.

Naked, you are all hello, holograph.
What prophetess said swallow?