Sta.sh
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The Faces of the MachineA machine is something that makes your heartThe Faces of the Machine by ~chickenpede
skip away from you in a cold terror.
It is something harsh
and darkly angular.
It may even drag itself from the ground to
hunt you in your nightmares,
its loud red eyes seeking you out,
buzzing,
to end your short existence
with a single dry cut.
A machine is something useful
and dangerous.
Mechanical arms can grow longer
and stronger
than human ones.
A machine can have as many arms as it wants,
as its bad-tempered engine-heart
spits and screams and threatens
anyone foolish enough to even
dream of coming near.
A machine is something you can find
nearly anywhere, doing almost any job.
Lifting, a
Dispersed IdentityNo one I knowDispersed Identity by ~chickenpede
Knows all of me.
Each person keeps a snippet.
Each treasures their cracked piece of pottery.
What would happen if they cooperated?
Surely it would make a perfect vase.
The thought of a solved puzzle
Drew these people together.
Out of concern for me, they said.
They made a diagram
And compared notes.
And then went in search
Of the piece that nobody had.
The piece I had.
So they find me
And show me a list.
They say: "Here's what we know"
Now give us the rest.
I am as stiff as my tongue.
So they raise their sharp tools
And start to dig, prying me open.
Ignoring my cries.
Each piece of me
They name and remove
And then set asid
Lady of 1876 Ironically, it was my stubbornness which caused me to change my convictions. Though Nathaniel was undoubtedly a kind-hearted young man, he was incurably delusional. He entertained the strangest ideas, and then in his spare time vehemently tried to convince me they were true. People, sentient people, could be built from simple mechanical parts, he insisted.Lady of 1876 by ~chickenpede
“All you’d need is a boiler and some clockwork. Just as you’ve got, Adelaide. Just as your inventor must’ve done,” he’d say. I usually ignored these benign ramblings and proceeded with what I was best at, namely repairing clocks and pocket watches. Nat
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The Bridge WifeTo Anna Maria on the occasion of one of our many weddingsThe Bridge Wife by ~Taralitha
I.
I have moved beyond humans now.
Beyond voice and touch and sound.
There is only you now - the chilling silence
the racing throat as I touch your struts.
Your peeling paint, your mid-throe arches
like a woman in orgasm - beyond movement
to venerable constancy, impenetrable
and ageless: to still.
II.
If you are bridge wife, I am bridge husband,
kissing my bridge bride with my pinkies as I pass,
saying good morning as I fly by on the bus,
saying good evening and lingering, lovingly,
with a paper cup of tea and apologies.
Perhaps it is lonely for us, never staying the
Love poem to a scientistBless the elasticity of the universe.Love poem to a scientist by ~Taralitha
In its multitudes, you: orchestral
arrangement of DNA. Synchronicity.
The random happenstance that conjoins
two humans in mortal dance. Our cells.
Recombining in sterile ways; saliva
and spermatazoa, some primal part
of you. I can trace your lineage
from your wetnesses. Redress
rivalries, emerge from history,
triumphant, and marveling
at our spiral-shaped stars.
I dare not speak of souls
or pray fate bring us together.
Just momentary, our fleeting faces,
our flicker before the dark.
ClockI cannot take time down, or make it;Clock by ~Taralitha
pledges of eternity are useless to us.
We have only these moments, rushed
and fleeting, a kiss in the dark,
the sounds you make before sleeping.
And I, in mortal failings, squander
precious seconds on my own misgivings.
Forgive me. That I cannot be awake
each minute, that some nights
I crave nicotine more than your lips.
That sometimes I roar instead of crying
and crawling into your arms. Blessed
are you that tenderly grazes my wounds
with a finger and asks, instead,
"How can I make it not hurt?"
I begged you not to die before me,
both knowing we cannot promise life.
But if you could stave off infinity
f
Zeal 
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