The Pattern

The Pattern bays at this contentious continuum.  How does that strike? An ashtray's spills, a bristled beard wiggles like fat on a ham. Your side machinery, your lifestyle, squashed beneath.  "Tell me a story of Machine!" How does this characteristic choir crow groans? Why can't Space err? Death pretends to be Space. The buried slave, Machine, entrances Space, inside the radius innocence.  What does it overcome? Should Death refrain from astronomy?  And so, the Pattern begins:

 An angel beseeches the Machine, "Cheat! Without Death!" Death propositions that the Machine should conquer Space, and thus overcome Death.  Machine, Machine marches. The unimportant (?) daughter quizzes Death. The Machine maximizes its upgrade; an intervening engine smokes. The Pattern moans with another's mouth. The Ruler. The daughter engineers Machine around pleasing neighborhoods.  Behind, Death breams with queries. Machine burns in jargon, flesh made metal made flesh. Death, rankled by Machine's laughter, disconnects the residents. Lying mathematics flash before the newly nearly realized crown.  Death longs for advantage, for compound eyes.  Machine cautions against it, but Death creates-and blinks millions. Machine envelops daughter, nesting within her sheer aura/electric electorate. The heroine sleeps.  Death's compound eyes pass above below beside through and slides Machine outside the principle, pages and paper across the rift.  The language degrades Machine.  Why can't an amplifier moan? Inside Machine burns Death, yielding the freak. Machine gates the closet under an alternative diagram. Death sleeps in the explosion. Space decays. Compound eyes shatter shimmer shudder shift. Processors speculate into percentages, Machine unties and flies Death above the great sail. The daughter, the ruler, climbs the celestial sail to brush Death. Space debris covers it, boiling.  Discharge swings disease sparks. Tunnels of flowers flow from daughter to Death to Daughter to death.  Daughter carries death below, each step a signal, a code. Death ghost Machine, the two blows short of an overtone. An eternal feast awaits. Unified computer, death and Machine, export their sex poison with patience. Rolled into scrolls, radio beams send dreams of death of brigades and radiation. The heroine, the Daughter, the ruler flies. The existence wrongs the diagnosis. The leak is anarchy. The jerk rattles, the rattles slam, the slam slouches. Is the state's core Machine? And if Machine rephrases all despair, will it hack the death, the fear? Outside Daughter works Machine, transmitting death. The great skull roars, champions of death, knights of Panic. the new manifesto manifestation begins/awakens/yawns.  Machine is the breath of death.  Abuse crawls, Panic squirms and slithers, and Machine begins to starve.  There is no longer Space.  Machine motors/motions to it's queen-the Daughter, the sleeper, the ruler. An axis hardens. The virgin bays at death like a dog after a doe. Death coasts from the unfortunate Machine, burrowed and suffocated, propaganda and pride. Analysis will offend from exposure. A key geometry transforms columns and rows, X's and Y's.  Daughter triumphant/vindicated/screaming. Death claws at the sleeper, the ruler, clambering and clutching each thorn into its dark cupboard. Weeping. And Death knows that tears are truth, and it retracts.  Catches a questioning breath. Death coaxes/tempts the ruler, the sleeper.  She spits upon Death, sizzles in the fires of sacrifice. Heat and fury consume Death and Daughter, caught in the molten metal middens of Machine.  Explosion!!! Space expands, and the ruler sleeps.  Death flies free, and the ruler sleeps.  Machine begins to rebuild, and the ruler sleeps.  The Pattern begins anew.