Andata Express/gold star for robot boy

gold star for robot boy:

i have to inhale always.

it’s to make my mouth cold and makes myself something rubber. air conditioning always left on, temperature management set just below human. it’s so heat’s just generated by friction more than a place inside my body or just from there being an inside at all.

all surface.

something satisfying for a customer, an experience with a pure object, a promised and future, all man’s technology arrives at this point. a math for me to proceed as close to a machine as possible, constant absolution for the customer who is just paying something like a hair dryer that works in reverse to suck him off..

he puts his prick in, it’s covered in astroglide. the flavor’s approximations of berries, wine made by memory and nix that i’m trying to forget it while i’m learning it, bicycle not working, bicycle carcrash or something. his prick’s remembering every onahole he’s used. he grabs the back of my head, he stabs around, trying to pierce the back of my throat, as if he could go all the way through and emerge from the other end of my head and i’d still be here bobbing on his cock, functioning beyond broken. maybe it’s a feature.

there’s a sound, mucus bonds between prick and throat muffling voice, the soft notes of a cough across a head and under the frenulum, its weak and gentle escape between my lips and this cock, a crack up. his dick leaves my mouth and he’s holding it staring down at me and it gives him a double chin. i am staring at the shadows in his new folds, mountains and the shadows they cast, a tectonic hurtling along his soft underside.

the way to make a blowjob machinic is to follow a mathematic principle of some sort. it feels like math, you start at a midtempo, you only take it deeper if he pushes it deeper, you speed up when it seems most right to speed up. i learned it from the way i used to get fucked by a machine with a dildo on it, the regularity of the process is most important. it’s math based on friction and moving pieces, fewer than the body i really have, i trade down for something streamlined and when you get caught or slow down it needs to be couched in the way you’d imagine gears getting stuck against one another. malfunction more than a new rhythm, to be uniquely disappointing.

he says: you’re not supposed to do that.

i say: some customers like it. we’re supposed to do it.

creeping out of me, a severed finger down a chute:choke.

he says: what button do i press to make that not happen.

he’s looking at the bathroom and his eyes are wondering about why there’s a place for me to piss if i’m just a sexdoll. it’s a subterranean sort of looking, or it’s the kind of looking that makes apparent the subterranean stuff all around us.

i say: customers aren’t supposed to touch that stuff.

he is staring down and not throatfucking me. his eyes are the eyes of birds that realize they’ve lost a worm, and some kind of predator’s disappointment bubbles up in blinks, a tarpit in his eyesocket. the connections never turn more human, his eyelashes are longer than most men’s and i wonder if that could mean anything to him. i cannot tell why i would think about that. his eyelashes are clean, maybe everybody’s are, when he blinks it makes me think of my neighbor who lives to the left of me and how we used to have to frot for strangers, and the one time we did it together alone.

when we did it alone it was as automatic as blinking.

i remember blinking clearly once, all my other blinks ink smeared on paper, a history unreadable though the last word lingers. the window to the right of me not open, broken teeth out on the windowsill and bars. i looked, they shined and a little ocean’s waves traveled toward me and off that fragment, a drop of night. over glass and bar tiny wrists or maybe just white flowers spotted red and wilting. i breathed in, wanting to catch an odor, there was nothing but my own sweat a stand-in for the sweetness of a graveyard with flowers left to ripen, the period of mourning faded into itself, embers into coals and fragments of the moon hung, frozen in orbit or so much descending that the trickle appears pure and still. from those wrists the night, a man pouring you water, wanting you to want to drink, slowness of seduction in those drying wounds. i blinked. i wonder if i could stake myself in that bloody arm, if that trickling affords me anything, a suffering to extend from, somewhere to root, or if i am only there with that body in a whirlwind and he has been sucked up into the sky, the mouth of a tornado spitting him out.

and here still the face of the stranger.

his eyes are different now, a wideness in the pupil, no shock and no horror, some solitary disgust, when a cockroach you are trying to kill brushes your hand, and you realize it is too close, a prison sentence growing more torturous dawns, the cellmate announced in echoes across the back of your hand. and he grabs my head and hangs me from his cock, and the choking starts again with my face sat in the pit between his thighs, hair like clouds of flies blot out the fluorescent lights over me and i wonder if my bedroom used to be an office. there is a movement in me, i trace it along an organ’s skin, pulsing from the border of throat and mouth, an itch escaping itself, turning into something like heat or light, i trace it along my hair and cheeks and ribs, a veiny throbbing all cold then hot along me. this feeling, these gags, are chased by some quiet wish. to ball myself up at the feet of this discomfort and for its jaws to open up, for it to turn material, some executioner or fog where i could place myself. in the thick of these undulating sheets of mist, a white flag over my lips and down my throat, caught in a trick i forgot how to perform, me there the carnival’s fuckup, the pinprick array of sweat across me, as he moves deeper my gags turn heaves, coughs muted and my skull gripped, from nowhere but heaven comes a cherub’s ass against my lips, and from lips that expulsive angel’s river flutters, water and mud busting up from me, bursts delivered unto rainpuddle.

my pharynx clings to the angel’s gift.

i am between my throat and my head and that nowhere in the unlit corner of my room and from there i wonder if i could save it for someone else, and still it erupts from my lips, a pond of shit between his feet.

something in the shining of the pool and our shadows cast down on it speaks of my dead neighbor, that inmate here who washed himself and appeared always wet and shining, a fish always trying to return to the ocean through the head of a shower.

more than the insides of my stomach all down my chin, over my neck and that hump, my adam’s apple, i feel the sweat of this man on my cheeks and in my hair. he says: what the fuck.

i think: why should a robot vomit?

our manager’s a bunch of eyes in the ceiling and messages through a forever overheating laptop that burns my thighs. i lay on the ground and read an email. it says: if you can’t sell the ai sexdoll thing I’m going to take the bars off of your windows and throw you out of them faggot.

email’s so quaint it makes the whole thing just, like, okay.

it says under that: tonight you’re going to dress up like a different kind of girl for a guy, pink. cheerleader shit kind of.

it’s my responsibility to sell it a little. i do my hair in pigtails. it makes sense, right.

i lay on my back and roll onto my stomach and feel nothing get pushed around, just skin against some bones, winter’s gusts around nude branches, skating so near to that dull void of zero you can imagine yourself biting through it.

i roll from my stomach onto my back and think about my alive neighbor touching my wrists with his hands and touching my head with his head.

when i visit him, he’s trying to wash off highlighter he painted himself in to try and look like he’s plastic or maybe it’s supposed to be something like rubber, old and yellowing. he looks like a girl in a painting with her skin all wrong, bent over and across herself, he’s hugging the whatever that makes him up.

sometimes i feel like we’re more like washing machines more than boys or men or girls or women and it’s not because of anything other than the way we stare into space, not vacant but a drone of processes that no one cares much about until it’s cracking up and the seals don’t work anymore and then we need to be tossed. i say: you look like an ai madonna painting.

i saw the painting on my computer. i remember seeing it the first time because of my computer being hot in my lap, a lightbulb scarring my thighs and in my computer an oasis and a dream that descended down to a place where you could stare and hold it, and never occupy it, there it is a jewel which i can hold to any light and refract anything through and can never set foot in those refractions.

i see it still when i choose to look at it.

i see it because i saved it.

three cartoon girls with highlighter-yellow skin, a cluster, about to hug and not hugging. Intolerable breathing around them, space that one rattles against and is still held up in. Arms never crossing, cheeks never brushed. affection from beyond, hair on end, they stare right at you, their affection is your pleasure. They are still and they are scouring your face in that unblinking. your excitation buys them their next second in that chamber, some realization of air conditioning as operational rule for how we touch one another.

there they are not looking at one another, and half feeling, all that closeness they have wrenched from the teeth of their own performance. and they still see in those jaws the remains they will never themselves possess.

refraction’s whispering:

please be pleased.

the light in the bathroom flickers and his presence so mute, he appears and reappears from the mouth of death and nowhere, a yellow spirit going pale in flickers. the hot water makes it steam, we choke on chemicals a little, when i feel his spine between the flickers we become rock formations sprayed by polluted seawater, the two of us static facts of a landscape.

i say: remember when we jacked off listening to swervedriver? can we do that again?

i say: let’s kiss or something.

he is scrubbing his skin to red, scrapes all across him. he’s speeding up like he’s all trapped in a plastic bag and can’t breathe, he’s speeding up and trying to not fall into the tub.

i remember a fantasy:

a man eats me, I am alive, and he’s fast as he is steady. a traversal through me, he’s a lawnmower and i am grass, and i am a spray of the red sea, an aerosol, and eventually i’ll be that reddest cloud of a sunset. but the traversal through me, through bone and vessel and meat and all of me, satisfies me as it satisfies him, clean bites through me.

outside my door are the clothes. my neighbor got here four weeks ago. that’s like a month, almost. i got here two months ago. there are five stories and now every room is occupied with something that gets fucked and is watched by four to six eyes in their ceiling.

i am dressed.

i think about how weeks don’t fit into months totally the way my shoulders never fit in the clothes men want to see me wear when they fuck me.

i wonder about liking it.

were I just the parts of me that mattered to others, i would be asshole, hips, ass, thighs and legs, fingers, a mouth, a midriff, a cock, nothing to stand on, i would be forever impaled and strung up, hung like a painting, barely breathing, i wonder why i am not only these things and the fact i can ask gives me some musculature i never sensed before, a flexing and throttling in my throat that is the whisper of each limb self-determined, angelic heaps that found themselves on me, uncovered artifacts or maybe just wasted things that see their waste as a kind of sovereignty, my arms a urine and urine a freedom.

i feel in myself the eyes of another, lamenting my fullness, these happy bodies on my body are reconstituted as little shames, each one just a kind of flagellant’s mark. i am mostly things to be cast away, and i wonder at my moans and its place in any reconstitution of this body. i piss and there’s someone knocking on my door.

lazy wetness travels along my right thigh, i didn’t piss everything out. oh well. and the stranger’s hand’s just working my left pigtail like it’s a pipe under a sink, a plumber’s ever growing frustration that it’s not doing whatever it’s supposed to, his fingers against where my hair’s pulled tight’s a mass of parasites trying to get through your skin, flies trying to dig through me, lay eggs right in my head, he pulls and those flies burst to maggots and i feel five of them right along my head. i amble.

i wonder what I’m feeling but i’m busy blowing him. my thoughts start and end with the throbs of another, i am only present between these constant adjustments. When he fucks me in the ass i realize i didn’t gag or cough. i’m a good robot right now.

i moan sometimes.

he says: you like that? i do nothing and i moan again.

maybe it’s not nothing but it feels like it is half way a nothing. there’s math to it, really.

he says: hey shut the fuck up.

he puts his underwear in my mouth and i cum before he does.

he says: what the fuck.

he says: you things aren’t supposed to do that.

i say:

idon’t know what i say, there’s underwear in my mouth.

he’s hurried, a breath: fuck, fuck, fuck.

his nails hurt my belly, excavation begins, it’s ballet the way the red travels down me, until it drips itself into leaping to that stranger’s claw. warm as sweat-soaked stockings, i pool in his palm, i skate across his nails. i am in the pit of incorrectness, a laugh at a funeral, an upright prick in a hospital bed, i feel myself most graceful in this hole, at the edges of punishment, lithe and out of line i am hidden at the edges of vision, to become seen now and be punished in the next instant, and to see myself spill out, bruise, cough and tear up, and emerge as spirals, arcs of movement and gunshots directed nowhere, heavensent light a spray through clouds. all pronouncements of a body, the tongue and lips before the breath that gives voice, a finger draws a circle in the air.

what kind of sex is it when i’m floating in myself, only feeling division between cock and myself. i wish my neighbor were here. when I am made to be in threesomes with him I feel warm, he is always holding me. he used to talk more.

and when he does, it’s like he did something he didn’t know he was doing, a shield against the obvious, i guess.

traffic outside, ceaseless, forever moving wind through everything, one day it will speed up beyond our control, and knock everything down.

traffic’s pure sense, it is always in the middle of cause and effect, it is the process and logic of arriving, it all comes eventually.

i want to see my neighbor.

my neighbor’s skin’s all faded and yellowish. he’s a real-doll made undead, resurrected from a vast wasteland, he’s dredged up the entire history of every discarded sex toy and bathed himself in it. he is vacant and his prick is in a concrete pillar’s tie-hole.

i touch him, i put my hands in his hair, i touch myself with my hand all smelling like him and burned plastic. a whole history of melted waste, a whole history of spent ejaculations. i want to kiss him and he is not facing me.

i lay on the ground at his feet.

he moans, ejaculating in the wall, when he pulls out i watch it seep.

he looks down.

when we touch, his skin at mine, burning through the world’s plastic heap he’s drawn forth from imagination, i feel myself fade, and so many other things blink awake, like i am seeing from the eyes in our ceilings.

when he is inside me, I fade further into everything else, i feel a funny brushing on my skin like serial numbers and ink licking me, all the commercial channels of the building and the million collisions along its path, i am a nerve cluster sorting through everything, my neighbor fucking me and my head to concrete. hair spreads like arms searching, nerves connecting to everything, on fire like my brain feels on fire like my asshole feels a hot rod melting me. i can’t stop feeling the hot patches across me, i am open at the burning spots, everything filters into me and out. i am turned socket, coaxial line, my spine is bent and one of my arms is a few degrees separated from my ribs and my ribs look funny like snapped fingers in cartoons. i am feeling a sound along the bottom of me.

in a sea of objects, where am I?