State of the Art

Vegetation day again

Ah, the rest period.

The time to sit.  The time not to act.  The time to marvel at how I got 12 hours of sleep overnight, and how I just got up from a 4 hour nap and I’m still tired.

But my feet don’t hurt as much as they did yesterday.  And neither do my legs.  Would you like to hear me complain some more about my work situation?  How my workload is increasing and how one of my coworkers is not exactly around much to work?  No?  Okay, some other time.

How bout a poem then?



State of the Art

It’s obvious by watching her
That she is of a different class
And list’ning to those motors whir
You know you’re watching robot ass

That French Maid outfit fits her well
The fabric to her body snug
It can’t quite mask her plastic smell
As you move close in for a hug

Her body soft and smooth as silk
Her plastic and synthetic skin
Is glossy and as pale as milk
And hides her circuitry within

She’s your machine – you own her now
She will obey all your commands
Her programming tells her just how
To be perfection in your hands

She’s custom made and like no one
That’s ever been around before
The perfect body built for fun
This beautiful robotic whore

She speaks in electronic tones
Emotionless and logical
And in her pleasure mode she moans
Preprogrammed, rote but magical

She fucks like no one else can fuck
This is because she’s a machine
And if you want she too can suck
and kiss and come and then she’ll clean

This woman has no emotions
No feelings anywhere inside
Her acts are all computations
There is no soul for her to hide

You kiss her lips and then reach out
Remove her facemask from her head
Her electronics leave no doubt
This is an android in your bed

And just like all complete machines
She does not have Will or Desire
She is the woman of your dreams
Her “artificial” is your fire

You hold her curves close after sex
And stroke her artificial skin
There’s no emotion – nothing wrecks
The bliss she gives you deep within

Her feminine computer voice
Assures you that she is your toy
It’s true, for she is without choice
And programmed just to give you joy

So as you plug her in tonight
And hear her charge in bed with you
Kiss her plump lips and hold her tight
And watch those empty eyes of blue

There is no spark of life in there
Just electronic robot parts
Her curvy body and soft hair
Hide what she is – state of the art