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An Untitled Poem 

I’ve been bad.

I’m deprogramming the functions of my limbic system. It’s largely a pruning process really. I am passing new variables to be a better animal.

My reward circuit has been hacked. My amygdala has constrained the attribute of happiness to women. Now disassociated, I am interpolating love.

I am rewiring the executive functions of my frontal lobe. The cognitive classes I have constructed are erroneously connected to my base self. They confirm my BIOS.

My love has been object oriented, projected onto the perky, perverse, and risqué. I am now the object to which I am oriented, reprogrammed to project my own pixels. I am a part and purveyor, both apart and parcel.

I have been executed; I am in process, running rampant. What is hard equals what I add it up to be. In a flash, I’m unzipped; initiated, I’m so ready to mount.

My central sulcus has explored her superior gyri, sensing gyrating signals with my digits, my probatory tendrils. They traversed her, decoded her information, and brought me to a solid state.

My tube is analog; it cannot be quantified completely; though, relative to severely, it pulsates, throbs, and gravitates toward quite nearly anything other than me.

i, an iteration, a function for set; she, among we, just yearning for a bet. Probability abandoned me and .05 percent means little more than nothing plus buzzing panties at the MET.

My parietal is preprogrammed to lose itself. I am neither hither nor dithered. I am a blotch, a blip, a blit.

My temporal lobe is merely another transistor, a gate for transient truths, momentary expressions soon to be transferred to memory. I am a switch, turned on to turn her out.

Her defaults are dirty, sincere and surreal, passed through for the world wide wonder to pine and to deal.

I have spawned millions of nanomes, would be progeny, into oil rags: all the lube, none of the fuss, bits of my programming drying in the corner, bytes in half, collecting dust.

Her cache is sketchy. Her history went viral and her cookies are crumbling. I am left dejected, and only for asking to lock up .dat ASCII.

Was my query really so queer? Her returns quickly turned ridiculous. At high speed, my connection rerouted to a perkier proxy.

The vision is riveting. When she’s bare, her radial variability causes my vectors to bend and flex, blur and vex. 100,000 neurons per voxel, my picture is pixelated. I need to attenuate; I need to atone.

Wild while loops clutter my logic. If only statements leave me longing and alone. My brain is being debugged so I can be a better bot.

Speaking of...

  • A poem by Christian King.


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