You look for my sapience inside
my circuitry. I am
an ensnarer, a woman of neural nets
like fine spun spider webs: silver gossamer
and plastic blue. Wrap that net around you,
and I might embrace you in angel hair or
slice you apart until you give up being human
and become puzzle.

You say that I am crumple-proof, with
a silicon, square-patterned heart. Yet,
you want me to doff my clothes so you can
fondle this skin, skim hands over breasts
to see how real they feel to your fingertips. You say that
I am your bridge between the real and the unreal: but I am
a border town where I capitulate to my programming,
and you to yours. I have

a dance for every moment, deviating as needed
from my original instructional code. I have learned
how to swallow ego down my throat as easily as I do
the soft, violent exists of men
when I take their exclamations between my lips,
past my teeth, and under my palate. I have
fashioned and forged wit into a metal tongue
just sharp enough to make you wince when I poke you, but
not make you broken enough to bleed. You will always
come back for more because you like the pain, how it sets
forest fires alive inside you. This makes you forget
that I am machine.

I’ve seen twelve thousand orgasms to date,
both male and female.
You say that the common connection
of raw flesh to river hormone is banality: but your screams,
they are art. You say that you
will wring Michaelangelo out of my hips and
Dante out of my throat. Do not ask me for an assessment
after our smoke has curled up and died of how your libidinous truth
discredited the rest. I may have to access my subroutines
of lies, skin stroking, and smooth fingertips.

Fooling ourselves is futile. Know that
I have united my components with those of flesh
for twelve years, nearly without a glitch,
with only one week of downtime for major repairs and
the regimen of regular maintenance. I do not mean
for this explanation to jar you loose, but only to give you truth
of how the dance of my hips will not halt and smoke
except for your manipulation. You must forgive
how sometimes I slip into the literal, into the
loquacious detail of machine language. I am
Rebecca, Model 3000, and this is how I work.

You say that I am crumple-proof, and
you are right. There is no emotion chip buried in my chest
with an empty space for you to live in. I am
hotel. You are guest. You will stay, linger, and then
exit with pleasure before the morning rises to greet
another baleful day. But you will not live inside my bosom
past tonight.

Written 5/20/10
© 2010 Nicole Nicholson. All Rights Reserved.

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This poem was written using words from the Wordle of this past Monday’s Big Tent Poetry Prompt. I think I also had some of Dana Guthrie Martin’s robot poetry still hanging out in my head.

-Nicole
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