Page 38 - The Woven Tale Press Vol. Iv #8

Mark Mayes
Voice-to-skull
Such clean phrases grow indistinguishable from my thoughts. It took little time. Where did one end and the other begin? What hybrid was created, and who owned output? There was no one to ask.
Appreciated the efficiency of the project. But there were unforeseen problematics. Problems of the unforeseen. Yet even they elide into flavourless smoke.
A voice told me I was hungry. A voice told me I needed a new coat. A voice told me to trade in my partner for a younger model. Or was that a car?
I have forgotten what hunger feels like. It used to feel good to eat. To satisfy a need. But now the need is met before the itch is scratchable.
People I frequent seem happy enough. They watch sports. They sip or guzzle child- ishly-coloured drinks. They might read a slim book or fat magazine. They talk about everyday matters with admirable fluency.
Men are taking more care of their bodies, and their skin. They smell pleasingly. Women wear glasses and scowls with aplomb. Sexes grow nearer to one form. I have this officially downloaded.
Tiny modulators, as good as hidden in the grass, implanted into asphalt, lolling among the leaf litter, silently whisper of perfect Autumns and unbeautifully desolate Summers. They hush one asleep as one lies against the bole of a plastic tree. They promise unfathomable success, without regret.
We may not turn off words, as once we could sleep, dream, and forget to dream. 29