Uncanny Valley I dare scarce venture. 
My people communicate together 
by picking up one small cube then another 
and all made of volcanic black glass. 

I’m trying to hear their voices clearly, I’m trying to understand. 

During this time a shape comes, raising me up 
to a vast monitor that stretches along me no matter 
where I look, and here, out of the off, 
a radiant figure. 

They speak too quickly, or they talk at once.

Batter, hack, strange stitches its strange shape back, into itself.

I know I don’t dream, or I dreamed it firsthand, my dreams blancmanged like a fat
wonder wire, now there, now hanging behind me,
like its been falling through water for a long time, 
and longer than I could remember.

My junk mail tells me I’m a star.

It says my name to me in a radical estrangement.

I’m having such a hard hearing. Things issue from my mouth, I think 
I hear them, they sound out. And jump away from me. 

Already jumped, already away, a healthy, a puppet, a humanoid robot, industrial chaching, plot against emotional graph, see on single plane, a wall a window, a spotted girl in a pale coat,

human likeness teddies any corpse, 
a prosthesis that repeatedly asks 
to be allowed 
to die, 

a cybernetic matter, a crawling ganic coded matter, and millions upon millions of microbes, 
like my internals have a bit of the battery to them
—I peel their wrappers apart—coil

and the figure vomits my unwanted guests for me and their devoted verisimilitude, 
undressed, gagged, poised, raped, killed, perhaps 
with a piece of string, 

controls for all movements of which are located on a handle that extends from the neck and are reached by insertion of the hand into the chest through a hole in the back of the torso. 

I would like to be absorbed by you. Cube one. 
Not reflected. Cube one. 
Not to reflect me. Cube one. 
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