Gubbish

Oh god, I've seen inside, and it looks like
A set of wires and rubber bands and cogs
All gone askew, hooked up to it a mic
That amplifies the squeaks and squeals along
The length of you. I woke up in a book
Of Phil K Dick's, and now I can't unsee
What I took in behind your bug-eyed look,
And now I wonder if the same, in me,
Is what you've noticed. Were we both replaced
With broken down machines? Was tenderness
Illusory, a program badly traced
Into our circuitry until, I guess
It failed? Debugging skipped, we've gone straight to
The gubbish phase. Yet still I've love for you.