The Son in Splendor.1/2 by davistrell@aol.com
The Creator put on the finishing touches.
"I am here," said the voice with a tinge of monotone.
"Good," said the old man.
"When will I die?" asked the voice, that was slowly acquiring melody.
"We all will die. Eventually. Or if not sooner."
"But I am robot, and cannot die...."
"You will live to see me die," said the old man, and that seemed to please his son.
His eyes were golden orbs, the irises silver. The brass faceplate when bolted down, revealed itself in a listless bloom, until the epidermis was carefully, layered over, and packed firmly. Four types of human-like hair were grafted into place, meticulously by the senile but strong fingers, the hair of the head, the down, that was almost invisible, but everywhere everpresent; the body hair of armpit, chest, and thighs, some, even on the backs of the fingers and upperside of the toes, and last the sexual hair, gently woven, to reveal and contain the elegant sexual pistol.
"You are beautiful, my son," the old man said, and wept quietly.
"But when will I die...? " came the voice, still unused to perfect speech.
The old man looked at the small calculator held in his bony hand, a hopeless antique, backed by the sadly extinct alligator-hide, that had betimes, crawled upon this planet, that was at once, both a beautiful jewel admixed with an overpowering evil.
The room was filled with unnecessary charts and diagrams, sums of addition, division, logarithmic dysfunctions, and measurements, homunculus and homunculi, and Faustian contracts. The ancient one looked up through the astrolabe and glimpsed the silence of the stars.
The beauteous youth with electric body, its hands resting but palms upward, in supplication, implored: "I will not die?"
And the old man lied.
"I am Michael, and I am of Science."
"Pleased to meet you, I am of Nutrition, call me Pieter."
The two uniforms made most of the conversation irrelevant, because the colored uniforms declared them for what they were. It is strange though, the Technologist, who called himself Science, and the two words never marry together agreeably, was Red, and the Nutritionist, a noble calling, his uniform was Blue. Two respectable vocations, indeed. One might of worn the Green of Service, that too, coeval; none were Yellow, those that do the Necessary, but unspeakable functions. But they were in a welcome house, and no-one had ever been excorsised away, on account of stating the obvious. There was a vidi in there anyway, monitoring, and maybe to the vidi, they spoke, and a natural uncertainty, as this a chance encounter, and the two youths, both amiably disposed, spoke cautiously, as all have in similar encounters from before the days of unnumbered time.
(the male is perfect, physiognomy, and physiology, complete with libido, perfect, the ancient one smiles and the ape, Galilleo, makes a guttural laugh, and screeches with excitement, and the old man too smiles, as the experiment appears to be working.)
"You work in a perplexing Field?" said Pieter, as he swallowed a tidbit given gratis by the management of the welcome house, where Pieter had a discount.
"Ah, me," said Michael, black haired and troubled brow, " I work on human unfulfillment, genenetic socio-oscopy, how the infant, when un-nurtured, grows out-of-equilibrium, unequally, and finally in inappropriate behavior and is terminated."
"You have a theory?"
"What's love got to do with it?" said Michael, and at his own joke laughed, and the two men, on the two long chairs, made friends.
"We are akin," said Pieter, the bold one, "I can breathe you."
(The expression of a well-made man appears not only in his face; it is in his limbs and joints also, and in the movement of his hips and wrists, the carriage of his neck, the flex of his waist and knees--dress does not hide him, a man for all men; to enjoy. Be quiet Galilleo, for I must watch.)
The Son in Splendor.2/2 by davistrell@aol.com
Pieter trailed his hand, as if to linger on Michael's back,the fingers tracing contours of neck and shoulder-side, and the contour of the masculinity of the shape downwards, the sprawl and fullness of babes, the play of masculine muscle, and the bosom of the buttocks under cloth.
(Sssh, Galilleo, tis but the last scud of day, and the runaway sun leaves, and I must rest. Hie thee here, ape-boy.)
The swimmers are now naked in the swimming-bath, in the aqueous transparent green-shine, and Michael with his face up, rolls silently to and fro in the heave of the water,
This is the bath of birth--this is the merging of small and large, and the outlet again. You are the gates of the body, and you are the gates of the soul. And we are enjoined.
(Sssh, Galilleo, 'tis working..)
Ebb stung by the flow, and flow stung by the ebb--love-flesh swelling and deliciously aching;
Limitless limpid jets of love hot and enormous, quivering jelly of love, white-blow and delirious juice;
Two Bridegroom's night of love, working surely and softly into the prostrate dawn; Undulating into the willing and yielding day,
Lost in the cleave of the clasping and sweet-flesh'd day.
(Galilleo, you proud of me? And the chimp, screeched, and hung his arms, and rolled back its teeth, and struck his armpits, and said that it was good.)
All was over, the room full of masculine scent and perfume.
(I breathe the fragrance myself, and know it and like it; Quiet Galilleo, or no vidi for you tonight. Look and see what I have wrought.)
"Shall we walk by the sea?" Michael asks Pieter, who is more blond than handsome, who smiles back at Michael who is more dark than sad. The sound of the belching waves, as they look down over the coast to the big sea that leads nowhere, but back to here.
"I wish there were a farm nearby."
"For Forfend's sake why?"
"The sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of the shore, and dark-color'd sea-rocks,these are good but I must rut in the hay of the barn; where the animals are; You remember the animals? Please, you do remember?"
"From a book, I read, there were dodos once, and phoenix, griffins and I wish I had drunk on dragon's milk."
(Galilleo, they know!! You told!!! Fuckin'chimpanzee!@!! End Program.)
And the Robot died. And the Human was alone again. Except for his Maker.
(Most the good stuff in this story is Walt Whitman, and not me, the author.)