Outsider artist James Poulos wrote a psychoanalytic prose poem which appears to be about how badly he wants to trade his tats for tits. But in realtity, his poem is about how badly he wishes he were a robot with tits.
Enclosed below is his poem, Translated into its True Meaning.
- “women” → “robot”
- “liberal”,”gay” → “biological”
- “conservative”,”Republican”, “Christ” → “cyborg”
Continue reading “What are Robots For?”
We are all interested in the future, for that is where you and I are going to spend the rest of our lives. And remember my friend, future events such as these will affect you in the future. You are interested in the unknown… the mysterious. The unexplainable. That is why you are here.
Look at that mountain
Look at that tree
Look at that bum over there, man
He’s down on his knees
Look at these women
There ain’t nothin’ like em nowhere
Century Boulevard (We love it!)
Victory Boulevard (We love it!)
Santa Monica Boulevard (We love it!)
Sixth Street! (We love it!! We love it!!)
It’s Cocks the Bunny, your pagan fertility pal!
Oh sweet sweet taste of organophosphate. Manganese starts looking hot to twisted amino. Finally — after a few drinks in front of the fire, a slathering of amyloid plaques, the delicious bondage of perverse tangles — copulus ensues. A rouge is born!
“The incubation period is of the order of 10-15 years…”
Consider the origin of every bone and giblet you’ve touched since the mid-80’s. Can you remember? Why can’t you remember??