Cyborg Romantics Poem by Mark Heathcote

Garbage is collected and recycled.
Junk, after all, components large or small
They are fed on conveyor belts—vomited.
Old toys like a bike, a tyrannosaur
Gears within gears are also remoulding.
It's the rise of robots near sentient
Fulfilling sexually, moaning
In all the right places, there is no concealment!
So easy-going, till their consciousness
Pricks them and requires more recognition;
Sentient beings, fully optimised
Making choices of their own volition,
The lines of what it is to be human blear.
What's reality never more unclear?