Sex with Robots is Quality Control
You never see THESE jobs advertised in the papers.
Anyone who would apply and sit through that interview,
they don’t want. Sex with robots is quality control.
And if they settled on that most efficient method
of assembly line work, things could get rather intimate
outside the lunchroom. 422 orgasms a shift and you
could claim it was the bloody job drying things up
and still drive home to some meatloaf–making breadcrumb wife
who wasn’t very smart or she would have tried to get
that very same job
years ago.
Hit Piece
The word hacks put out this poo poo head kill shot,
this 1500 word hit piece in the dailies that was
meant to knock out the power again,
digging up dirt like paid shovels instead of
real actual people and when they couldn’t find
that smoking gun as they say in the industry,
they just made it up; the lawsuits would come first
if they came at all (most just folded to the pressure),
years in the courts before that inevitable retraction
nearly a decade later on page 23, in print so small
that no one ever saw it; just that original giant headline
on page 1, that is how it would be forever.
In the minds of the reading public.
The lead story. Breaking News!
Some slanderous slag off rushed to press.
So the scandal rags could sell party favours
back to the confetti lobby again.
Drubbing
It always happens.
Away from prying eyes.
Four kids down the alley.
Beating on this other kid
who quickly turtles.
When he goes down,
they begin kicking him instead.
A real drubbing.
Too dark to see the blood,
but you imagine it must be there.
That wheezing of a wildebeest on its way out.
Surrounded by a pride of hungry lions.
One hanging onto the jugular,
the others tearing flesh where they can.
And it is unusually cold.
The weather, I mean.
The rest is just what you would expect.
On a night such as this
or any other.
The neon from the corner convenience
out to blind entire armies out of their last
stanky leg retreat.
Something for the Road
The jukebox has gone silent
in a musical sense.
Not a single thing in tune
for over an hour.
And the bartender eyeing the clock
like some angry salamander
out of love and out of time.
I could lay it out
so the vacuum cleaner salesman
with a bum shoulder
could pitch his tent for
his tribe.
Really wig out on the wam
of discount smokes.
That dry mouth smack
so that I ask for something
for the road.
Crumpled money from careless pockets.
Blue chalk cubes finding the floor.
The pool table in the back
torn up as though on hungry
lion safari.
That buzz of insomniac neon.
A bowl of salty safe house peanuts
leaving the shell.
No way to tell all the tells
at this luscious yellow
urine puck hour.
Out of pants
that would never be caught
wearing themselves.
The blankets on this bed
like hours of idiot
mummification.
A slight breeze through the window.
Over the hair of long snoring arms.
A few dozen landlords
waiting on rent with the locksmith
from the boonies on call.
That rusty smell of water
from the showerhead
awaits you.
A fresh mouse trap
of the snap.
And that sound of early morning
traffic I feel half-sorry for.
In my favourite failing undershorts.
A warm beer beside the bed
like liquid waterfalls of the poor.
He always said
he was going
to write into
the papers
to complain
about this
and that
so he could
bring about change
and maybe
see his kids
once in
a blue moon
after the breakup
and that
they would
pick him up
and give him
a weekly column
because there was
things to be said
and a readership
out there
that needed
to listen
and when
the war broke out
he said
he would go
over there,
don a bulletproof
vest and everything
even though
where “there” was
was changing all
the time
and he couldn’t
spell worth
a shit
and the Men’s
shelter down
along Princess
read all the
outgoing mail
to limit
the stalkers
and crazies
in a single
wide net
that carried out
Thursday night
louse checks
with volunteers
from the walk-in clinic
that tried
hard not to
pity you
even with those
once bright
downcast
eyes.
Dumpster Fire Press 