An unedited, first draft poem.
In the distant future, seven or more reels or texts or eras of anxiety away looms the vague object, dim and forgotten amid the rust and the ice and the paperwork was it a Bluetooth speaker or cathode ray television? (like in the history show) will it be immortalised in our collective dementia like the floppy disc, as a pictogram of itself but not representing itself it sort of looks like one of those popcorn buckets for the movies do you think it is a promotional item what is its resale value was it a Doctor Who prop and what was Doctor Who, anyway did it speak like the new machines? what did it do? could it pick up the new channels? could it love? what is its scrap value? and do you reckon there is security there? I've always wanted to own a human-made machine I heard it looked for aliens but didn't find any we are overcrowded now who needs to look outside and see strangers my mirror speaks to me my refrigerator hopes I have a good day it's a weird thing, that dish on the horizon to think our grandparents looked outside explored because they lived before the new worlds if we want aliens, we can build them if we want new flowers, we print them petals worn from the start, echoes of petals the code has seen from the 'real' world that old world the strange world this weird dish remembers if it can remember if it can think at all and if it can't, should we think for it? do we owe it something? should we go in, try to switch it on? what if it had more to say? did they cut its tongue? why? do we care?
Goodnight, humans.