Tin can man dance.
Hear the machinery adjust to the steps.
More oil for the gears if he falters.
More air pumped into the lungs.
He’s got poetry tongues and venomous prose.
Spit it out in rusted bones.
Close enough to his breath and you’re oxidized.
Construct it piecemeal if it’s not enough.
Build a better practitioner of impatience.
Jangling metal’s alluring tune;
a myth of progress in robotics.
Faults for a day and rises in three.
Divinity achieved in glassy eyes,
and the glassed eyes watch and pray for a visit,
turned about in the factory floor.
Production goes for more years to come.
The ink never runs out for us.
They tap away on the screen.
Sell out for a knife or two.
Heretics abound with the wool over your eyes.
( ❤ Mitch)