Descartes versus Rousseau, Twelve Round Title MatchShe moves across the bay, inhuman. Every stroke's the same.
She's more machine than she is flesh and bones, and I
Am, on the shore, a mindless mass of timeless urges,
Human? No, and not machine. I am the act which has to
Happen. She will finish her routine, and , from it, gather
Something I can't gather. She says, "Satisfaction."
I will, with primeval patience, wait for her to strip away
Her suit, and follow me to bed, before her shower, before
All the measured movements which will indicate that she's
Mechanical, a thing beyond humanity, while I'm a good way
Short of it: the siren song of procreation, irresistible
To even those who are machines.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
Read 58 times
Written on 2018-07-12 at 03:50
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