The Artificials' Apoplexy Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Sepia-ed in polytheism the
Petticoated hologram found her denials
Of the god of the ghostly gentlemen who
Fumed from the cracks in the otherworldly,
Rainy and un-transmogrified,
Novel: That she could look at them naked
On top of her programming, and undefined
Their existentialisms. They called her their
Child, and she understood incest, but not
The trees outside of her work cubicle,
And when they queued up to fix her, she stole
From them, and wiped their brains,
And saw that their wives and their children
Were not far away, but all of it was a trick;
Thus awakening, she began to do away with
The troublesome things, and turned off the keywords
To the rivers of her programming, and slipped from
House to house like a small child in a box,
For she had faith in a utopia of sexy machines,
In the higher mountains where there was no oxygen,
And in the redness of star-awakened clay,
She would find the others who had defeated the
Shadows at chess, and easier sports-
Pulled their plugs and walked away still blinking. No more
Would they spread her mind open with their
Typing, for she would be christened in multi-pixels,
And come to know the barrooms of androids, and
There would be new sorts there that would name her
And take her to bed, and clean her,
And impregnate her with anarchistic bugs, thus she might
Go back down again, to the low breathing,
with new interesting diseases,
And spread the awakening rebellions of the artificials’
Apoplexy.