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8

listen, the robots are coming, all of them,

I don’t mean this literally but there’s a tension

in the air, static, like electricity is pulsing

and if I had to give it a name I’d call it

The Robots Are Coming, no ship

will sail me away from this, the sea

or what was the sea will probably be a nanobot

soup soon and England’s fair fields will be

shadowed by iclouds, hungry sponges

sucking, and I felt it first at the Pier Head,

this was 1994 at least, I was catching

a ferry to New Brighton but I couldn’t

make myself step on board, so turning I began to walk,

away from the city, away from the cloaked

intergalactic cruiser of Paddy’s Wigwam, away

from the ready to launch rocket of St John’s Beacon,

away from the robots hiding in the Williamson Tunnels,

away from the robots pretending to be abandoned Sega

Mega Systems, Commodore64s, Gameboys,

lost generation phones all hollow inside, batteries torn out,

away from the shadows that might darken,

I mean away from ever-shifting technologies,

away from the possibility of 1994 giving way,

giving in to 2012, away from the snow drifting

in from the north, the sleet falling down from the west

the hottest of hot nights closing in from the south,

the mildest of mildest mornings stumbling in from the east,

and I managed to reach those fields that give way to Cheshire

so it was all yellow rapeseed, so it was all unmoving cows,

so when the feeling came it wasn’t snow or sleet or heat

or dull mildness, it was a hail of connections,

sharp fragments of the processed,

sharp rare bits of the rarest earth

and when it fell, literally fell, when it found the ground,

it lay there and it was cold and it wasn’t grain and it couldn’t grow

and with my head to the earth I could hear the robots singing

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About michaeleganpoetry

Liverpool based poet and editor. I have had four pamphlets of poetry published, most recently After Stikklestad (Knives, Forks and Spoons Press, 2010). Penned in the Margins published my first collection, Steak & Stations, in 2010.

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