Machine

 

Rubii Red's Naarm tram (detail): https://rising.melbourne/wormhole/art-trams-guide-2023

My dreams convey wishes through walls and over valleys on a machine effective as breathing. Weightless I meet imagination’s soundless machines, their unconscious motivations a road movie that cannot wait. Before, all too soon, a machine of ascending bells wakes me again to this other reality. Its ringtone is Clements. The reality of the machine that browns off bread jumps to my attention. Reality that includes a machine talking back to itself extra half-baked opinions time will stale. I reach into the sustenance machine that cools everything within an inch of an ice block. Its ringtone is Shudder. School drop is the slings and arrows of vying machines warming to a grizzle, bending to a kerb. Those same machines interminably queueing against a sunrise red, a sphere of evergreen. Querulous and viewing machines that burn atmosphere and rust after impact. More machines than anyone knows what to do with. Woken from their dreams again, more work-brave sunlighters step onto machines that roll on interwoven steel links to their money-making quarters. The sunups gaze into the wells of the world, their eye-flown one picky to next, asking their googie-egg timer autocorrected enquiries. Can we live without all the machines? Is naming machines a sign of over-dependence? Complete assimilation? They stare from the interweave window pondering their eye-flown’s stonewall replies, the science adamant there will be machines. More machines than anyone knows what to do with. Adamantine as a promise. Ear machines channel serrated songs and simply symphonies solo. Their ringtone is Ear Candy. I could count out my days on the machines converting clean Yan Yean into brown cappuccino. I sit at that glass watching the wheels called machines. The machine that rains inside. The machine for random intervals. Machines to plumb the bottomless abyss. Machines to construct every story of every storey. Machines that build-up granite illusions. Machines for relicking award-winning perpendiculars. Machines for putting out the relics single-handed. Their ringtone is Pulse. I could take time out from information machines, cool and delectable in the air, their cerebrations heavier and gadget options an omnishambles, to imagine my world without machines. I could unplug, switch off all machines, their ringtones rung off. I could send my thoughts to everyone on my eye-flown one last time. Observe how quaint is the face of the time machine on the townhall tower, its arms all over the place. I could resume the sensational search for food. I could stay at home without a machine. At sundown red I could paint calligraphy poetry quietly down roomscrolls, exert black lettering to say all in a little.