folio : Forty-five Ottawa poets
or my dear car, or my millionth selfie, or my long lost happiness, but they're mostly drawn to death, because they don't understand. bots can shut down, start to fail, but they don't die, aren't active in the process of it. i'd made my millionth joke about petit mort, but bots don't get sex either. they replicate what they're shown, same as humans, but they never get to enjoy it, twist some sort of fetish from their subjugation. i went to a show and didn't feel the transcendent power of art. i posted pictures to the net like i was programmed to. i hear the same music, see the same porn, fake the same feelings every single day. if you don't know death is there comfort in the end. when my cat died i didn't cry enough. i didn't miss him enough. a new bot reminds me of this every single day.
What I'm working on:
It's been kind of a rough year (see: dead cat, among other things), but I've done art when I can. I'm shopping around a full-length manuscript at the moment and letting some new material pile up behind the scenes. It's been a slow year for my writing and my other art but the horizon is looking a lot clearer lately.
IAN MARTIN is still dying. IAN’s writing has appeared recently in BAD DOG, Discordia Review, Sumac Literary Magazine, These Days, and VANITY. For poems, games, and whatever else, visit WWW.IANMARTIN.ROCKS.