you would think that
he'd be a beserk rage-driven son of a bitch
to do what he does
but he's not
he's like a biomechanical alien
from a Star Trek episode
efficient
detatched
devoid of passion
dedicated to one purpose
and one purpose only
it never occurs to him
that what he does is unnatural
it's just an urge
transfixed over time
into a systematic daily routine
calculated violence
he's a diligent little microprocessor
he experiences no pain
and no pleasure
the power he has to annihilate her
the threat of one savage glance
prevents her
from solving the equation
of being encased in the glassy psychological tomb
that he carefully constructed over time
to detain her
as he turns to her
fluorescent visual distortions
ripple
underneath his skin
as his facial circuitry struggles
to simulate an awkward grin
he's on autopilot now
unconscious commands
from deep within his central processing unit
propel him forward
towards her
suddenly
like a dirty piston
he's ramming slamming plunging
into the helpless cylinder of her disjointed body
afterwards
he recharges
with crackling frequency modulated daydreams
floating effortlessly in and out of his skull
daydreams of nine millimeter bullets
that in slow motion detonate
around her face
as he imagines her malfunctioning again
like the last time she burned the bacon and eggs
like the last time the coffee was too weak
sometimes
a silicon-based nightmare washes over him
a dream where she unplugs him from the wall
and shrinks him down real, real small
with that honey i shrunk the kids shrinking raygun machine
and with huge plastic cowboy boots
she steps on him
she strains to hear the satisfying crunch
of shattering his unclean hardware spirit
but he's an indestructible machine
resilient
relentless
he shakes off this dream
and realigns himself
as a little voice inside him whispers
resistance is futile
resistance is futile
resistance is futile