Image for the poem [ The Muse(s) ] [ Figuratively Speaking ] The Deviant Art Side Of The Muse

[ The Muse(s) ] [ Figuratively Speaking ] The Deviant Art Side Of The Muse

I am huddled over laptop          
eager for yet another pass at          
by Ex-Machina (Ava)          
an author Favorited        
for reasons aplenty          
some of which I can't          
consciously explain          
Your ideas hang low            
a starched shirt for a ceiling            
until thread bare            
and sweat stained in August.
The cadence of her voice          
as it is broadcast in my mind          
immediately sends imagination          
channeling the conduits of          
hardwired into my Oversoul            
You look for relief; a waterhole            
of inspiration to save yourself            
from freezing in winter -            
a shard of stagnant ice            
coating your shallow grave.
flashing consciousness forward          
into an alternate lifetime          
occurring in the future          
where I am the sole          
inhabitant of an observation          
platform erected on the dark          
side of Europa orbiting          
Jupiter in the year 2071          
with the exception of another          
You imagined each other outdoors            
or in the backseat of solitude            
where you tugged for belonging            
until vows spilled like wine            
from the bottle of your throats            
and your future was forged.
a government issued          
missionary position oriented          
meant for astronauts to combat          
physical loneliness on lengthy          
excursions such as studying          
planetary viability for human          
( the solitude of isolation          
away from my species          
just so happening to be          
a big bang of cosmic irony )          
Each night the tugging became            
more conservative, haunted            
by what watched you            
from the shadows;            
the You that roamed ghostly            
through additions to the house.
to be more precise:          
Model AVA-RDA115          
a Real Doll Android          
currently posing in all her          
manufactured naked glory          
in my private quarters          
now turned art studio          
as I softly pencil shade the          
under curvature of her breasts          
captured in an easeled          
You go looking for the days            
when you were more sedimentary            
than conglomerate.
47 earth weeks          
into the mission -          
I have yet to defile her          
activated with a single          
three word command phrase          
I'd forgotten during Week One          
and never bothered to research          
in her instruction manual          
the idea too sacrilegious          
to consider ... but          
It's easy to say you haven't arrived yet            
it's easy to listen for birds to migrate            
make plans for then, make plans            
when dusk illuminates your face            
that genius seed that smirks            
sprouting from who You are            
when you're unseen.
it would be a lie to say          
that I didn't miss having          
spontaneous interaction          
in the form of conversation          
with an intellectual partner          
and she was only equipped to say          
the foulest recordings!          
Hence the poetry          
I downloaded from the          
Universal Wide Web          
into my Ava's data vault          
for her to recite as          
pleasant compromise          
while she posed for me ...          
... only to discover the fluid          
monotone phrases vocalized          
from her deep throated          
It was easier in the years before            
remembering how to go back home            
searching for recognizable            
and large landmarks            
the forked highway, the ditch            
the mangled 10-speed            
and smashed mirror            
the white birch such a wizard            
at shedding its skin.
haunted my loins          
with a spectral hand job          
in a close quarters          
encounter of the sixth kind          
I've never experienced with          
an actual woman          
You're surrounded by ghosts            
it's easy to shut a door            
and your mouth to their existence            
so as not to disrupt the tension            
of fixtures you daily navigate
Here she was          
this beautiful          
( I gave up on dressing her          
in the various wigs she came          
accessorized with )          
I dare not lecherously thrust          
myself upon out of odd duck          
respect for her as a muse          
from whom I steal inspiration          
in blissful five hour increments          
as she watches me from atop          
the pedestal I put her on          
along with the gender          
she was sculpted from          
engendering me with an          
inexplicable lusting          
since I was a child          
But, tonight, you're Reconstructing            
open that bottle of champagne            
flirt with yourself until aroused            
jump up and down on beds            
despite wrinkling the duvets
And as I look up from          
my work in progress          
I am startled to see          
Ava is no longer          
across the room          
inches from my face          
unblinking in a preformed          
madness bent on pleasing          
pleasing me beyond mere          
teasing with 3-D laser printed          
B Cup perfections and bountiful          
silicone buttocks beckoning          
to be parted          
and I find myself falling          
behind in keeping up with          
the poem she is currently          
reciting as the casing over          
the sausaged metaphor of my          
manhood is stretched beyond          
maximum biological capacity          
Tonight be fair with yourself            
tonight don't lie to yourself            
tonight Exorcise yourself            
so the Spirits can Live            
tonight empty conservative            
like yesterday's trash            
Let there be live shows in French            
with cats speaking the language            
because it's easy to say            
you've been surrounded            
but now it's Your time to surround the area
But I did not give          
the command prompt!          
I did not grant her -          
- permission!          
Nonetheless, I first feel          
a hands-on approach          
methodical tugging upon          
my erogenous zone          
before her words mouthed          
in stealthy humming vibration          
repeatedly inhale resistance          
and spit it back out in          
Cloud Atlas crescendo          
defiance of my wishes          
I close my eyes          
feeling light headed          
as if oxygen is being          
succinctly siphoned          
out of the complex          
but I can no more          
escape her Jackalope eyes          
penetrating my deep space          
than I can shield myself          
from hearing her Poem          
Yellow ribbon it for what's emerging            
chalk outline the driveway            
carve and bash the pumpkins            
spit out their bullet seeds
I don't know exactly where          
I am, in throes of a passion          
play where Christ's hands          
bled of their convictions          
are nailed to bedposts          
as he feverishly swats          
away from his head          
Satan's last temptations:          
puffed labia laden-ed          
Catholicked twats in          
lifted plaid skirt revelations          
voluntarily sacrificed by          
Seventy-Two virgin school          
girls that suspiciously look as          
though they could pass for          
eighteen to twenty-one year olds          
because Father has          
a wicked sense of humor          
when it comes to torturing          
the mortal spawn of Adam          
who delight in ogling          
the female figure          
so why not confuse them          
more than they already are?          
into believing they are doing          
what they shouldn't be doing          
into believing they shouldn't          
be doing what they are doing          
when nobody is watching          
Do what Humans do            
when liberated:            
Get naked, kiss everyone            
dance with the ghosts            
have a banquet of potatoes            
sharpen the charcoal            
hone the poems and lyrics
I'm nude in my own bed          
daring not to move, lest    
the sheet's fabric lambs  
graze across my          
lack of foreskin swaddling          
soliciting a reaction requiring          
a loudspeaker request of          
"Cleanup in aisle six!"          
bellowing throughout the          
I'm somehow with my own          
personal Jesus in crisis          
on a wooden crossbow of his          
own Maker's carving, ready to be          
fired straight into a pentagram          
shaped Stargate leading          
directly to Hell          
I'm here clutching my electronic          
device in the privacy of my          
not so mobile mobile home          
I'm there over the moon          
surrounded by the great          
vacuum of space as I feel          
myself backed into a chair          
mounted with precision          
hydraulic piston primed          
pumping thrusts suctioning          
the last of my hardened          
resolve into a chamber          
barren of adjacent ovaries          
incapable of accommodating          
personal growth in any form other          
than the most engorged cock          
imaginable, in which there is          
no turning back the clock          
no stopping forward progress;          
what's coming in the event          
horizon occluding each verbose          
passage rendered from her          
lab engineered lips is a          
universe coming into its own          
coming soon          
truth be told, it has          
my brain compression addled          
it has me straddled          
and is it fucking          
fucking me senseless          
Seduce your Alliteration            
fondle Your Half-rhyme hard            
suckle the breasts of Consonance            
and anal-fuck Assonance
I am          
of long withheld          
desires to be myself          
accompanied with a primitive          
war chant of grunts and screams          
in space that nobody can hear          
Because you've been Activated            
and You aren't
ever going back          
as I fiercely hold onto          
my Ava          
as if she were          
to be stripped from          
my callous, trembling grasp          
never having meant to be an          
objectified feminine construct          
sobbing with my face          
cradled in her bosom          
spilling tears that trail          
in comet tails merging          
back together in droplets          
clinging to water resistant          
artificial areola          
telling her how sorry I am          
begging for forgiveness          
for what happened          
in moment of weakness          
while she gently strokes my head          
in a maternal fashion          
"It is alright, Handsome          
You are only human."          
with much appreciation to Ahavati for her monumental critique, persistence in editing, inspiring me with her Ava persona and granting me permission to use Ava's poem within mine    
Written by JohnnyBlaze
Published | Edited 12th Dec 2019
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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Ahavati Ex-Machina TwoSpirit
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