This poem is about a sex doll that someone built to mimic their wife who had died. It explores themes of grief and the role that technology could play in that grief. It talks about the superficiality surrounding this mimicry as well as the superficiality present in some relationship dynamics.
She hung the replica of “Persistence of Memory”
Her favorite painting by Salvador Dali
She said the ants were a symbol of mortality
The softness of sleep and the harshness of reality
When she talked about art he adored her commentaries
But that night she had a few too many Virgin Marys
She went for a drive in their old Jeep Wrangler
But it crashed into another and she felt a cold grip entangle her
He had a kaleidoscopic view of life
A twisting and twirling controllable device
So he custom built her made for his pleasure
Perfectly symmetrical from each and every measure
She woke and laid him down on their bed
And he kissed her lips that were a bit too red
She loved him as she was built to do
She loved him like she used to
She caressed his hair as he commanded
Superficiality was the armor he demanded,
She slabbed on more and more cheap concealer
Masquerading as the deceased art dealer
The painting above their mantel drove her to a panic
To her, the ants seemed grossly organic
The hardest mechanical objects in front of her were wilting
And the lonely landscape around it, melting
She stared in a state of reflexive disorientation
The monstrous fleshy creature in her fixation
The machinery that seemed grotesquely primitive
And says to the man “It’s kind of derivative”
The basis of art is truth, and she was fake
He laughed in his bitterness and agony of heartbreak
The disparity between outward and inner disposition
Was enough to make them question the human condition
“What do you want to eat?”
“I don't need to, but if you want I can chew, swallow and repeat.” As he brushed back her artificial hair
He noticed she was missing the scar she’d had there.
“You’re….. passionless” he stops and says to the plastic She wanted to cry but her tear ducts were just elastic Some form of grief to make her capable of sympathy
But was trapped by the trauma of existence haunting society
“ Technology changes but people don’t”
Her circuitry glitched, he won’t he won't he won’t
He never loved her, the one she was programmed to adore Automated shock waves ran through her entire corps
She leaps toward the door without making a peep
But her cheap cord was grabbed by the mournful creep
He looked deep into her eyes and saw the wife he wanted to keep The artist he fell for that he had lost to that Jeep
What he’d sown he’d reap, as tears started to seep He unplugged the cord and began to weep
“It's so early to be dark” It says.
And it was put to sleep.
Photograph, by txmx 2, distributed under a CC BY-NC-ND 2.0 license.
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