Romantic
Thought never made a man be a man
Machines it has made on every hand.
Thought-machine nabs a woman, woos her by soft
Cooing rhythm of the electric hum of his cogs;
Then thought-woman, like an earthworm, swoons, makeup gone smuck,
Uncovers her hairless legs, straddles machine, and they fuck
By the light of the silvery moon
In Ju—Ju—Ju—June.
