The Machine is My Mother

Spawned of the gearbox, foul mesh of metal
Rusted sprockets, leaking faucets,
And the shrill ring of the kettle

Tromp down the hallway of average achievements
Wake up, move along, rinse your hair with a liquid song
Chewing a foul mix of caffeine and mint

Cog'ged legs harshly scrape to a halt
Body twixt the gears, nothing left to fear
Mortal flesh gives way to the cold iron assault

If the throat paused and harkened to emotion
See it in the eyes, a scream would rise
From the tears long since lost in the ocean

Coasting on the coast of a kinaesthetic theatre
Unable to reject, negligible effect
The most noble, epitomal repeater

Rain

Imagine you're on a street. A quaint street somewhere in Europe. A small town. Quiet. It's raining. Gently raining, but enough that all you hear is the sound of water. Water dripping, bubbling, flowing down drains. There's violin music coming from somewhere. The sky is cloudy, overcast, full of fat, lazy clouds all squished together in a big atmospheric traffic jam.

The street makes you think of a library. It's slow, complicated, and lined with odd bangles and stories to explore. The cobbled stone your shoes click off of look back up at you, sighing their stories of old. They remember when times were better, when times were worse, when time flowed without the strain that it endures now.

So lonely. Low-key. Flimsy yellow light glints off the water drops, as the only working street lamp struggles to uphold it's charge. Somehow things seem blue. Not black, but blue. The calm, gritty darkness creeps around the corners, curling up your legs, coating the puddles and the crannies in the walls with a wash of navy.

A sign, hanging over a a closed pub, swings softly to and fro. The faded picture of a goblet and a thick book slump in their colour, almost as if they were joining the rest of the town in sleep.

Again, you hear the snap of heel hitting the walkway. And again. You slow. The steps ease off. Around you, the squished buildings rise up, overlooking and guarding this innermost of urban roads. It feels so safe. the rain covers all, the light does it's best, and wobbling sign smiles at you. Again, you shift. You're soaking wet. The footsteps have stopped. the only sound is rain. All there is must be made of rain.

A little girl peeks out her curtains, watching the road below. Her eyes sagging, she forgets that she ever heard footsteps. The rain soaks her thoughts, and she drifts back into sleep.