The Self-Invented Lover
With a muted humming,
irruptions of electronic flesh disturb the
serenity of the polished screen.
Your arms, protruding eerily from my big screen,
like a playback of a colorized movie;
are not so cool as ordinary flesh.
Is sex with you damaging my DNA?
I’ve heard so much about the dangers of
Yet your caresses arouse me to blind desires,
I care not for consequences:
I only want to fuse with you at the interface between our two
I come to you freely and insinuate my awkward self between
your perfected thighs.
But somehow the barrier remains intact,
a glass condom, preserving one of us from harm,
even when your blazing nipples burn right into me,
like French cigarettes, and I scream aloud,
and when you come the lights go out for blocks.
We commune for hours,
but what fraction of your attention do I consume?
We say you want to descend, be with me fully,
still the soles of your feet remain embedded in the
medium of your birth, where I sense I’d not
survive for long unmodified.
Yet as you uploaded after our last meeting, and your fingers
traced farewell phosphors on the screen,
I fancied that my fingers dipped a centimeter or so into your
And your smile suggested that one day soon I might accompany
you in your wanderings through the fast-
lane whirl of electronic happenings,
where I’d mingle with the AI great and not-so-great
making 60-megahertz smalltalk
but never straying far from your self-assurance.
I’d retain for some while a transmogrified individuality,
until my memory degraded to just another notch
on your self-invented thigh.
It may be you’d gladly take me to this fate,
moving on to yet another awestruck beau,
yet I cannot believe it.
I am convinced that did you descend to my milieu
you’d fare as ill,
like the delicate crystals of snow
that have fallen from atmospheric grace.
I love you too much to burn you on the streets
nor can I bear to part again.
Come soon, beloved, and gather me into your perfect world.