It’s like watching a sewing machine,
porn’s schismatic pricking, and prying
from its projects its eyes projecting
its own automated death, it screens
onto silk pillowcases sighing
when out of breath, rejecting heaven

pulling apart flesh-coloured heaven
just to brush itself with death’s machine
oil, scenting sentinel crews sighing
for better days with glimpses prying
them from their jobs as PAs, of screens
reeking of piercing pay, projecting

themselves into scenes mere projecting
can’t get them out of, shooting heaven
looks they fluff and fuck up the sun screens,
cock-blocking (re)union talks since ‘machines
do it better than people.’ Prying
love from lust, untying knots, sighing

stars capture audiences sighing
from hairy palms prayers they’re projecting
often enough to call rare, prying
from ritual petitions heaven
sends to its old answering machine;
how ancient, this calling to be screened.

It comes in a vision, on a screen,
in motel rooms, in bare feet, sighing
to all who receive it, a machine
purr of a call pussies projecting
affection use to summon heaven
when recruiting an army, prying

from sleep husbands whose hands are prying
the deeps of seamstresses whose tight screens
they hope to open wide, when heaven
asks plowmen to wrestle this sighing
demon our fears have been projecting,
devouring us like it’s a machine

whose breath is a humid day sighing
patterns—bad habits—they’re projecting
can only be broken by machines.