Own Automaton
For Hans
Dead squirrel joints,
iambic electrodes
teach them rhythm.
Method tapping
divides yourself
from science.
DIY bionics,
invasive prodding
on own terms.
Cats smug,
secure in their
eventual predator.
Loyal dogs
stand by side till
wary in age.
Every animal
is killed, converted
to some sound.
Graft your own
tune until town
rushes stage.
You keep your
suicide pill tucked
well under brain.
Of course art
can kill you.
Something has to.
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