Clutter

These robotic minions scurry about me,
Cleaning the remains of my cracked porcelain plate;
But since last Wednesday when she left me,
More and more, it's them I've come to hate.

My days of independence have long since died.
Those bachelor cares, during which I didn't have to ask,
Taken away by the automaton concern,
Which can't wait to perform another of my tasks.

Everyday more clutter litters the deck,
And the automated nagging begins once more.
This is the new marriage that I cannot annul,
Of man and machine, which life calls a bore.

Reprogramming is beyond reproach,
As it violates the one-year company guarantee.
So instead I choose the Nicholson option,
And with my handy pick-axe, I smash them into smouldering embers of debris.

So now there is nothing of notice,
Except clutter littering my floor.
The bits of crushed machinery begin to sag,
As if to say "Well, what did you do that for?"

And now for the psychiatric profession.
I put on an excellent show,
But I wish I could have a vacuum cleaner with artifical intelligence,
And ravage myself on the pleasures of the suck and blow.

Find more by Martin Jack in the Author Index

Comment on this story in the Aphelion Forum

Return to Aphelion's Index page.