"Lie Down Spasticus"
There's a tensile edge to us;
extra strong accessories to our limbs that would
with intermittent jestful ease, to leave us looking drunk
as we pitch and flounder in search of a foothold
fight for balance, grapple against non-committed joints
lock at one-eighty; can't sit down, or ninety; can't stand.
We smile, though the effort leaves us exhausted, slow motion
become the choreographed burr and rust of just being;
let's go to bed, undressed to titanium in robotica we perform
and not even hydraulic suspension or heavy duty lubrication
those squeaks, singing out louder than bed springs, when
and grind each other to filings. There's a metal edge to us,
we can't run but we're fucking.