H+ Poetry: Real Girl

real girl img

Dark night in a futurescape,
Only one room, no lights, with no escape.
The sound of ambience could be heard over
     the sound of the ambulance.
Real girl, you have me in your trance.
Tell me, is this fate?
I see the dim red light shining through your corset,
Recording in your forehead, the two of us on floor beds.
“It doesn’t matter what you’re wearing,”
     I said in whispers as you’re whirring.
“But does it matter who I’m wearing,”
     she replied, glowing all red.
In the top floor suite of a hotel left in ruins.
Drones overhead, snapping pictures of what we’re doing,
Live-streaming missionary in a city of no missionaries.
A worldwide audience, online for the viewing.
Red and blue lights glaring, sirens echo through the morning,
Raiding rooms below us, hearing nothing but your moaning.
Flashlights piercing through the darkness of our fantasy,
Through the corridors of crime.
Excuse us for not mourning.
Rain drops pouring by the window as it vibrates
     from the music bass pounding – the illusion that we’re quiet.
Posthuman primates in a drug infested complex,
Eyes caught in contact as our pupils start to dilate.
Sweeper ‘bots knock at our door that is locked,
Oblivious to the fact that our bodies have it blocked.
Caught in haste, our ways leave the windows
     in a state of haze, with minds so dazed
         we negate the hallways ablaze.
The sprinklers turn on, windows transparent from opaque,
As the door hinges break from the strength of our bodies’ weight.
Artificial love is the dance that we are waging,
Real girl never slowing down,
Pure energy, no breaks/brakes.
As the fire dissipates, an ad light shines through the hallway.
“A sale on teledildonics,” it says,
Oh, what corporate foreplay.
Drones still viewing through the now open doorway,
Airing a social media gourmet of our risqué soirée.
Dreamstate fantasies now merge with our reality.
Our sinful night now growing short,
Oh, sweet cyber blasphemy.
We make our way downstairs, through the chaos of our everyday,
In the background only sounds of lustful cybernetic threeways.
For today, we say, was a night of futuristic artistry,
Circuitry mixed with anarchy, in a world opposed to chastity.
You may vanish when I exit, real girl of my dreams,
But when I return, so will you –
Alive in the beams, pure energy.


3 Comments Add yours

  1. I like the humour here. The mention of the red light speaks of prostitution but perhaps I am wrong on that score. Kevin

    1. B.J. Murphy says:

      Hi Kevin,

      The female character in question is, indeed, a sex worker. Though I attempt to fuck with the reader by making it sound like a robotic sex worker at first, but then reveal she’s a holographic one instead at the end.

      1. Ah, I didn’t pick up on her being a holographic sex worker. However, on re-reading I note the final few words of your poem, “Alive in the beams, pure energy”.

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