Poetry

Automata

a device for the creation of narrative from gravitational potential and knotted wires | stilted at first, movement is artifice and the mind is bereft of interiority | the infrequent kinship of action and perception is to its thought as grooves in the baseboard to puppets | to play Prometheus with no drama, no feeling and only sparks across hollow neurons within the china clay of sparrow’s eggs | no thunder but tin sheets rattling, no Eleusinian mysteries only vacant men and webs of string

Alex Marsh