Vending machine woman (feat. Porpentine)

Vending machine woman crawls onto the subway,
knees and hands black with grime.
Passengers shove coins into her mouth,
as she shits out cool, refreshing sodas.

A passenger strokes the vending machine’s serial number tattooed flank.
She’s what you’d call a chaser,
someone who fucks vending machine women.

She’ll probably follow this one as it crawls back to its refueling hive,
tickle it until it sort of fizzes in its belly, and it gets punished,
with extra reconditioning,
destroying whatever humanity remains.
This vending machine woman is being punished.
She broke some ~societal rule~
Alternatively, there are people who chose to become vending machine women.

“Are you sure?”
“Fuck yeah I’m sure, I’ve been masturbating to this since I was a kid.”

Full conditioning is required to make all vending machine women safe under, safety compliance laws.
The machine zaps through her skull into her brain, obliterating neurons, rerouting serotonin.
Arcs of blue light shock false memories into her psyche.
The cool clutter of cans in her guts,
The tease of fingers on her buttons.
It was always this way, you were always a vending machine woman.
Her soul is a corporate logo with mall shades, and electric arousal.
Arousal at the crack of life, the force of a skyscraper. Persistent droll-oll [?], always a toll [?].
Light crackles out [?], staring directly in the absence of a vagina.
Behavior mapped onto the paradox [?] of torture