Alien – Geoff Wallace

I want to stare at you, lock tractor beams.
Drinking coffee. Leaning back occasionally.
Staring at the control panels
buried in the other.

I want some kind of ship with a little
incentive, the headless body
of a hard work – a small locker
containing movement, a slot
on the trigger. I don’t realize what it is
that worries me.

If I say I’m sick of men –
splatter me with uids and food
and metal removed from the ground to kill hysteria – this damn
electrical re in my body
Keeps overloading
what was semi-transparent –

that I’m sick of their contents

these seven gowns
hanging motionless

like puffinng, groggy surgical gloves.

Distressed ivory shines in your body
Tears away at the spongy surface –

Thee door looking for a ram –
the apertures that spill out what they see
based on nutritional requirements.

And the door blows open.
And the cat moans.

I should be all you ever sleep with – a robot
screwed on a metal deck, programmed
to haul cargo for you.

Stares / He s / Touches / Peels

Bring me that light speed
and an incubator – I’m starving
Woven through the jammed
round opening at your cheek

my decision was to be completely healed over
Huddled under the sound
of rending metal

which only appears to be a whole system.

I enter the individual
how divers ascending toward a new reading
penetrate only what hurts.

I’m searching for a smear
of human life
hanging from the landscape

Thee blood on your
hands and chest

The back of your mouth
The back of your mouth nearby lattice

is quiet

Beneath the oily window.

Time is a molten blast. Another. Another blast.
Another lid that pops open. Row after row.

Turns out the transmission is inside that
flamethrower over there

sitting up

It Leans / Shines / Shines / Snaps / Rigs / Begins
then suddenly makes a loud groaning noise

and the science is all wet.

I want to work but can’t.

The cat hovers over my machine
illuminating the grooves.

bizarre extrusions on plexiglass appendages
the future fossilized in distance.

another combination of nothing new

an opaque surface that wrenches
that comes loose in bed
200,000,000 tons of fine, white
silk-like material

You could get cramps staring into the stain.

And here you come up against
a featureless ground
the night-shrouded torso
the source of breath

I labor just to slip
in the wake of you

to fall into the appropriate switches
swallowing sleep
like some kind of table you admire.

your mind bank is a leathery thing
with a complicated biology
able to touch the bridge
to have been ripped.

It levitates.

Below us, night’s tide rolls
across the X-ray, smoldering
fragments with a little
creature in reverse position

listening on the frontier
listening a long moment –

it’s still like some horrible dream
about dealing with a primitive image of order

about running with instruments into a huge cocoon.

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