Sitting at my desk
On that digital typewriter
Typing away with furor
Overcome by sexual vigor
Penetrating from verbal to visual
Hoping for ekphrasis
But coming back to see
My theory was not in practice
Yet that device screams aloud
And suddenly a birth comes
Gasping and twitching grotesquely
Wishing for sweet release
It still asks for more
I am an agent so I must comply
I go on for another while
Sweating from the process
Each time the same occurs
More disfigured than before
It yells and my ears bleed
But it grabs me, commanding to continue
Years have gone by with this routine
The machine’s cries has not deafened
One day soon it will give out
Something that won’t ask to be never born
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