/lit/ - Literature

THE E-MAIL MACHINE

There is a black face
it does a wraith in
throughout and is channelled
through the wires of the
intergalactic life support machine.
That exists, outside the laws
of human comprehension.

Plugged in to once every
ashes drawn forth and
laid still as they weed
further to ensure their roots
and financial stability,
with springs for defence
against earthquakes.

No cheers of thunder
two hands. With elongated
fingers and dirty nails
that establish a grip.
As an ancient rite.
And a house of mirrors sprays up and
over from the glasscrapers saying,
“Then what am I here for?”

“To teach English.”