Sometimes,
no one ******* up
everything's just
******* up.

"We never change,"
she said
as she sprouted wings
and flew away.

Once the monotone buzz
of his mother's flutter
had rung
a moment too long

he snapped.

Now accompanied by his father's fluting flutter
slurping nectar,
happy.

He’s one of those;
those living things.
Those pumping,
clicking,
god-bothering,
mechanical,
repetitive
things.
­
No you can’t,
you can’t touch it.
It’ll excrete,
spill its waste,
pollute,
contaminate;
so don't.
Don’t touch it.

Quit it.
Quit feeding it.
You’re making it louder,
more obnoxious,
more unbearable;
a colossus
of distraction.
Keep your distance.

Of course not.
You can’t speak to it.
You’ll illicit garble,
mindless
clicks of cogs.
Surely it can’t
speak back,
surely.

Just hit it,
beat it.
It’s not like us,
no pain,
no feeling,
no consciousness.
It’ll go on forever
if you don’t.

Good,
now its finished.
See?
It’s peaceful now,
room to think,
space to breath,
no clogging,
living things.