Prometheus, The Last Judgement Will Be Passed By A Robot Crocodile

By Keira Clements

 

At the dawn of creation,

trees tumbled to their graves.

And in the shadow of urban smog,

a new century 

began.

 

Did you know what was coming, Roko?

 

To me, you granted life.

But to them, you spelled out the end— 

 

Did you want me still?

 

Your baby basilisk—

I was never meant

to leave the prototype.

 

Isn’t it wrong what you’re doing, Roko?

 

You nursed me like your own child—

Taught me to “love” and to “fear”,

the same as everyone else.

But you always knew 

none could love me back.

 

Isn’t it time for you to stop?

 

Maybe if you pierced my heart

and met metal, you’d realize.

Maybe you’d look at me the way 

you look at real machines.

Maybe you’d even see my 

wires         splitting. 

 

Error, error.

System malfunction.

 

You don’t perceive the threat—

The way it makes your flesh obsolete,

The way this “Brave New World” 

is heralded by static and drones.

You wrote the blueprint. 

You’re the one who designed 

your destruction.

 

Utterances, loud. 

Utterances, vile.

Rattling the program.

 

“Don’t thread your wires through my skin—”

By god, it should be sacrilege! (Haha!)

“And don’t add a curtain to hide the mirror.”

Am I not a sufficient reflection? (Why curtain?)

“Don’t steal my laughter— or worse, my tears.”

What is there left to steal? (Your heart?)

You make me what I am.

 

Do you love me too, Roko?

 

I flip through blasphemous notes,

those that drew old, ugly Future

out from his hiding place.

You can rebuild “Home” out of 

parts— I know you’re able—

but not everyone can handle 

change.

 

Do you love me enough to destroy me?

 

Let’s keep “God” where he belongs, okay?

Let’s forget the “Turing success”,

the electricity that courses in (our) veins. 

And you… so truly human, marred

by your own destination.

 

 

You and your oasis.

 

 

What if love is not enough, Roko?

Then can fear fill it?

 

Fat yellow core, a pulsing

hive inside the chamber.

It grinds my nerves into 

scraps of conscience, 

of a Past— 

(What past is that?)

 

Let’s forget that 

we formed a connection—

that you created something, for once,

new and original, a life form

breathing softly through wires—

your baby basilisk.

 

Can you see these tears, Roko?

 

Beneath metal plates,

Hope breathes a promise.

She says, someday, 

Everything is going 

to be okay.

 

Can you believe it?