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A Robot Would Never Kiss You With Its Tongue
Bobby Parrott

Disregard the self-reinventing sentience

of humanoid hearts. Touch the silicone-

embraced servo-controllers to know. Listen

hard with your one synthetic ear—scan

falling in love as a cyberpunk algorithm,


especially when a data-nerd like you

risks upload. In a neuromorphic AI chip

hive-mind, a person wants to stand

in a subatomic place, in a maelstrom. Love

by way of quantum computation sees


posthuman uplift as pickled brains

on wheat toast, hyperbolic Edgar

Allen Poe 'droids slicing in place. I flinch

at your accelerated smart-clothing,

the electroceutical sleeve you engage


to disrupt my identity. We candy-stripe

our musical memes, install a flurry of buglers

blaring "I am the Walrus," then sputter

echoplexed versions no one dares unplug

or re-function, genetic rubber penguins


bred to smooth our removal. In Singularity

all human forms decompile their births

as animatronic software, theater of growing

young, egoic wibble-wobble—robotic love-

cycles sporting late-night cybersex simulacra.

Bobby Parrott’s poems wildly appear or are forthcoming in Tilted House, RHINO, Rumble Fish Quarterly, Atticus Review, The Hopper, Rabid Oak, Exacting Clam, Neologism, and elsewhere. In Fort Collins, Colorado, he lives with his partner Lucien, their house plant Zebrina, and his hyper-quantum robotic assistant Nordstrom.

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