Work no. 295, Biomechanoid, 1976. H.R. Giger.
Xenophobia
Something alien, resting in a grave,
or a pod; sarcophagus of metal.
Surrounded by living walls of flowing
mechanics, pipes, the plumbing of nightmares.
Who is it? What is it lying
in cold
repose, locked away, or merely sleeping?
A being from another place like ours
but colder. Greyer. Jet black holes for eyes.
It no longer needs to see hope, color.
For what it is we hope it never wakes.
Creatures create in their own images
and for this one I am scared to see it.
Yet, I cannot help but wonder what lies
could be told from beyond the bones and pipes.
Behind the face-hugging mask is living
tissue, not unlike the walls all around.
The biomechanics of the foreign
machine more questions than they can answer.
The greys and blacks bring forth greens and blues; cold.
A ship that lost it’s rich hues into space.
Pulsating architecture rises from
acrylic on paper, on wood, to life.
Glistening as if synthetic, although
it’s organs were crafted by a human.
This is a great illusion of our time.
Everything that seems foreign comes from man.
The real, the surreal: interpretation.
Faceless figures become strangers to us
and we cease yearning for growth and knowledge
just because the unknown is
not YET known.
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