Matthew Jenkins


bots


we eat bitumen like the others do &
we all do
sitting down for metal brick cement,
fork in the fine plasticity of
wi-fi,
we lick in the shade

we breathe in binary
chew the fat
bemused by people breath &
bus machines.

a blue man flinches unnoticed
on
Pitt St staring
in to
the pigeon cache,
we bite him on the elbow
like bots,
we want to pulp the enigma into bottles
like bots,
until it’s gone.
we scoot the street
for new pastures new stone,
biting chunks
in the sky of
here,
zip zip
Zip,
we find our feet whilst moving ever
outward starved
& as vagrants:

bots
comb into lines intuitively
like cogs
licking magazines & napes concurring,
a nip
a gorge
& only the dust.

peel the bot back and what is there?
Flesh?
the colour of pig?
Flesh?


beneath the steel beneath the case
that holds life
in caged
unable to sing or scream
just digits, tick, tick
ticking
through each acquired sun,

we nibble the foundations of
bridges unconcerned,
we roam up William
clink
clink
clink,
a little bite
clink
clink
nip nip
Nip,
a ruin of Bots,

& in the pavement wildflowers
where the blue man was.




Matthew Jenkins is a Sydney, Australia, based poet.
 
 
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