Working. Not Working

A domestic device
Mechanic prosthesis,
With a touch of muscle power
Fed by flesh and blood,
Or the ambivalence
Of a hybrid machine-body

Under the gleaming shell
And its captivating colors,
Amongst nails and nuts,
The workings of society
And its binary structures,
Hides the dirt of the world

Spinning, round and round
Like an antediluvian dance
Spreading traces of the everyday labor
Like a whirlwind of facts and confusions
An empire of signs

Who keeps a hand on the hose?
Or the hammer?
Does it wear sparkling red nail polish?
Or is it stained with dirt?

Women’s games. Men’s plays

In the internal chamber of the device
From the depths of the earth
A giggle resounds
The satyr is at work
Abusing his prey,
Whilst a flower of self-love
Blossoms through the last rays of light

“The devil as ever is in the details”

Poem by Lucile Bouvard