on VoiceMash. I choose lyrics and the pop star’s voice
is thrown up through my internal speakers.
The implanted woofers and tweeters in my chest
are shaped like dishes of a foreign blood’s beating.
Like big dish ears singing how they can’t hear.
They claim they have a hungry heart.
The parts of my body that selective cryogenics  
is preserving on ice nod imperceptibly along.
The foot which won the lottery to live forever
shudders like a G6 ready to take off.
This gun’s for hire. The foot can relate.
Don’t get carried away, I say, although I like it
when I can imagine my parts are dancing
with the robots on the screen.