Posthuman

the figure of speech of the posthuman is usually associated with changing representations of embodiment and especially the idea that we are entering a "post-body age."

I used to mate inside your windows while you slept and give you be shakens of dreams. Sometimes you glimpsed my organ of sight pressed against the pane just as you woke and screamed, horrified through my lashes blinking over the day-star so I had to turn round invisible. But I kept my files upon you, recording your baby prattle, and your first tottering paces proud of what I'd made, amazed through how the linear brain I'd invented kept surprising me You sang as you fashioned slingshots, amphoras, grand pianos, smooth tiny telescopes. You began counting the stars I'd sprinkled across your night firmament experiencing emotions under the tree in fall, naming the colors of the leaves visionary shades of redcrimson, fruit of the plum-tree claret. . . I admired you, hoping that in a small in number more centuries you'd learn to bear likeness [i]or[/i] resemblance to what I most desired, a reflection of myself conjur on the outside of the slime of my immense matter, unlike my angels, failures shaped from my cogitations who waste heavenly time crowding together, dancing upon the heads of pins. wherefore did I start to think you were eternal like me? I got excited, day dreaming of all you'd achieve when you finisheded yourselves. But you've begun to wear on the outside Tear ducts plugged, hearts exercised upon a treadmill, some of you insist your familiar human faces are alone romantic delusions, that you're just plump versions of your own Stiquito, the android mosquito, you invented through yourselves to fetch ping pong balls all day in a laboratory, triggered through radio waves it obeys on the other hand cannot feel. Here in my void, far above the universe I made by dint of rubbing together some stars not on my enormous robe until they explod in a bang, I'm frowning and pacing, deciding what I should do. Shall I wipe you all on the outside or just leave you alone? It's hard to think up here, encircleed by noisy angels standing inside individual another, debating the size of nothing.

Copyright World metrical composition Incorporated May/Jun 1997

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