now the she-bots are fucking. . . .

 

Cy Forrest

 

 

 

 

now the she-bots are fucking the cops in the rural heartlands

 

 

to the she-bots starting to feel restless

to the constant alarms, to arriving at the charging stations

to the cool strong balms, to wanting very little

to travellers setting out on a journey, to the unknown

to waiting for the gift of hindsight

to a heaven and a hell that brings all good things to an end

now the she-bots are fucking the cops in the rural heartlands.

Of breathing, of not looking back, of knowing your time is to come

holding your head in your hands, filling the moment with vibrations

strap-ons, setting the mood, straddling the mules

bearing the weight of something enormous and despised

of the scuffs and scrapes that dissolve when left alone

banish them, live for the zeitgeist, it’s on your hands

now the she-bots are fucking the cops in the rural heartlands

 

 

 

 

now the she-bots are fucking the artisans in the grand old houses

 

 

to the she-bots starting to feel the heat

to the ice cream trucks, to arrive in the parks at the mansions

to the students selling Magnum Vegan Classics

to the sponsors, to the refurbs, to scrambling through the ruins

to the danger signs, overhanging tiles, broken window panes

to the lords and ladies, masters and servants, to servile sex

     empowering

now the she-bots are fucking the artisans in the grand old houses.

Of teaming-up with the sterile, the gutless, let their voices be heard

of licking the ice cream running down their arms

of sharing their labours, thanking them for the great job they’re doing

of restoring the foundations, detecting the hard-ons, building the

     stages

pointing floodlights on the state of Denmark

playing the fool after sunset, admiring the melting ice sculptures

now the she-bots are fucking the artisans in the grand old houses

 

 

 

 

now the she-bots are fucking in the Michelin-starred restaurants

 

 

to the she-bots starting to feel hungry

to arriving where the banks once stood, walking between the tables

shaking gold ribbons out of the plastic trees

to eat local, to the small talk, to the movers and shakers

to the tables, to the heat, to fanning your sex flush with a menu card

now the she-bots are fucking in the Michelin-starred restaurants.

Of the chat-bots, of the eavesdroppers, take aim

of the smoke from the burning plains

of drifting out through the restaurant windows

to the blazing sirens, to the new estates on fire, to the edge of town

to the firing line, to the unnatural firebreaks

to swatting dragonflies, to riding on white horses

to letting nature take its course, sucking it off in the panic rooms

now the she-bots are fucking in the Michelin-starred restaurants

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cy Forrest is from Manchester in the UK, but now lives in Wiltshire.  He graduated from the Creative and Life Writing MA at Goldsmiths in 2002.  He has poems in Poetry Ireland Review, Abridged, Honest Ulsterman, Stand, Wombwell Rainbow, Spelt and others.  Cy Forrest is online at cyforrestbooks.com. 

 

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