by Rudi Matic
Sprawl of automata, bereft of tongue.
All that we see will surely disappear
In winterfall, slung wholly in that silence:
A lid of moths and after-wings. Endlösung,
Whose nearness now is neither frontispiece
Nor immanence, but sleep more cool than air,
Where all the tasks of flesh are obsolete.
Initiate.
Submit.
Execute.
Delete.
Ganglia rise in thermonuclear colors.
The earth the sea the cities shine like fire.
I press my fingers to the quiet stars.
War in the age of intelligent machines.
