Form is Function

She steals steam after the summer rain,

rolling it off the asphalt as a carpet

she will lay in her den.

 

She was named by the tesseract

snarling in the backyard.

Instead of her period each month,

she turns blue

and Inspiration knows she is fertile.

 

You are so cuttingly engineered,

designed with impure

perpetual function in mind.

 

What does it mean that your gears shudder

torturously

at the turbid passion chewing a gash across her left hip?

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