Poetry

Robotroid Girlfriend

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 POETRY




Robotroid Girlfriend by Matthew Rohrer  


Gliding Toward the Lamps



1.

The way a woman keeps her house

makes me want to sleep over

to see how she comports herself alone.



I see from the street this woman likes to snuggle:

her alcove is smothered in comforters.

I imagine being curled up in there against the wall,

watching her tonguing a cruller.



2.

As I glide home I think of the Robotroid Girlfriend,

and I am gliding toward the little lamps in her eyes.



I have turned her every-which-way and never

found the fuse box. I don’t know how she works.

I think of the way she lies rumpled

in the rumpled bed, everything inside her switched on and purring.



I would love her bare arms to scissor my neck again.


        

  





©1999 Matthew Rohrer and Nerve Publishing

 POETRY




from The Robotroid Girlfriend



I tightened her screws.

We hadn’t seen each other for weeks — maybe longer for her,

who didn’t sleep.

  

        

  





©1999 Matthew Rohrer and Nerve Publishing

 POETRY



Five



I awoke to find the building empty,

peacocks hooting outside

on the grass courts, and to my left, in bed

with me, her forehead dappled with sweat

of napping, the daughter of a man I knew.

I poked at her but she would not wake up.

I slipped into a white robe which dwarfed me

and went downstairs. The jacuzzi burbled.

Late sunlight blanched the far end of the courts.

Erotic pamphlets lay scattered around

but I was too tired to engage with them

in any way; I flipped through the pages

then fixed a brisk drink, and one for the girl.

We were alone as stone outcroppings.

She rolled over in bed, pulsing. I stripped

off the bedclothes and she squirmed but still slept.

Nobody would ever know what I did.

When I emptied both drinks on her, she slept

through it, and when I sipped them from her

declivities, and rolled her to get at

the rest, she mumbled in her sleep and frowned

like a schoolgirl mentally rotating

a three-dimensional object in her head.

And when the poison in the drinks pressed me

on top of her and my tongue fell out

quivering against her clavicles, and

my entire body went tumescent,

her face became calm. The face of a doll.

Then I realized she really was a doll,

a very warm, battery-powered doll.


  

        





©1999 Matthew Rohrer and Nerve Publishing