There's a tensile edge to us;

 

alloy lightweight

extra strong accessories to our limbs that would

 

otherwise collapse

with intermittent jestful ease, to leave us looking drunk

 

and disorderly

as we pitch and flounder in search of a foothold

 

claw toes

fight for balance, grapple against non-committed joints

 

that thoughtlessly

lock at one-eighty; can't sit down, or ninety; can't stand.

 

We smile, though the effort leaves us exhausted, slow motion

 

mechanical movements

become the choreographed burr and rust of just being;

 

metal fatigue

let's go to bed, undressed to titanium in robotica we perform

 

Meccanno porn

and not even hydraulic suspension or heavy duty lubrication

 

can prevent

those squeaks, singing out louder than bed springs, when

 

we rasp

and grind each other to filings. There's a metal edge to us,

 

we can't run but we're fucking.