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# W.A.P.
- URL: https://dianaludwick.com/w-a-p/
- Published: 2026-07-14T14:23:00.000Z
- Updated: 2026-07-14T14:23:00.000Z
- Description: “W.A.P.,” written Tuesday, July 14, poem 195 in a series of 365 poems written by Diana Ludwick in 2026. Photo, "Slippery When Wet," by Diana Ludwick (c) 2026.
- Author: Diana Ludwick
- Tags: 2026 Poetry Challenge, Dry Humor, Generational, Humor, Loosely Hinged, Perimenopause, Petty, Poems, Snarky, Unserious, AI-dacity, Alarm, Bed Linens, Cardi B., Certified Freak, Dance, Defeat, Divas, Gaslighting, Got It!, July, Megan Thee Stallion, NPR, Runway Magazine, Sheets, Siri, Stiletto, Summer, There's some Wh-- in this House, This is Funny, W.A.P., WAMU, #Migrated-1792872215677, #wp, #wp-post, #Import 2026-10-24 20:03

Thrashing through bed linens,  
I battle to shield my ears  
from wailing waves of woe.  
**“SIRI! *STOP* 'DIANA’S ALARM!'”**   
I scream, beg.  
  
“You want me to ‘Stop Diana’s Alarm?’”  
Siri clarifies, an edge   
of condescension   
cresting her consonants.  
  
“**YES**!”   
I beg, burying my head.  
  
“Got it!” She replies,   
before falling silent   
without further action.  
  
The unwelcome sirens   
permeate my skull.  
**UGhhhhh!!!**  
I groan.  
  
“Alarm **OFF**!   
“Siri, **turn the alarm** 
**on 'Diana’s phone'** 
**“OFF!!!**”  
I slice my syllables  
through the air, wielding a verbal stiletto  
(the Italian dagger, not *Runway* kind)  
to penetrate the deep chasm of  
human-to-artificial intelligence.  
  
“‘Turn off the alarm on Diana’s iPhone?’”  
She parrots.  
“***Got*** it!”   
She cheers herself on.  
  
An unseen hand pulls  
an aural plug from its socket;  
the room empties  
of concussive throbs.  
The pulsing crescendo   
disappears, as if magic.  
  
As if   
all I had to do,   
was ask.   
Thrice.  
  
Now she's gaslighting me.  
Siri, my betrayer,   
is not a Woman's Woman.  
  
**Mgphhh!** I scream,   
my anger lightly muffled  
in the wrinkles of warm pillow   
into which I've burrowed my face.  
  
The floor pulls me;  
Gravity is still ‘on’ today.  
  
My face contorts like  
a savannah lionness;  
I grimace and yawn  
and summon life into my lungs.  
  
Time to join the greater world:  
“Hey Siri, play ‘**W-A-M-U radio**,’”   
I request, forcing a slight smile, plastered  
and a veil of patience.   
My honeyed voice is crystalline at its core.  
  
**“On it!”**   
Siri responds,   
her pseudo voice   
set to *frienmesis* mode.  
  
Siri, undaunted, declares:  
“Playing ‘W.A.P featuring Megan Thee Stallion by Cardi B.’”   
It’s official;   
she’s cackling up at me   
from AI Hell.  
  
My bedroom,   
brilliant with Eastern rays,  
now swarms   
with the dulcet chant of   
a morning mantra manifested   
by bits and bytes,   
just for me:  
  
🎶THERE’S *WHORES* IN THIS HOUSE!  
THERE’S SOME *WHORES* IN THIS HOUSE!  
THERE’s SOME *WHORES* IN THIS HOUSE!   
(Hol’ up!)🎶  
  
My jaw aches   
from sudden displacement  
as my mouth drops open in shock.  
The AI-dacity.  
  
🎶I SAID CERTIFIED *FREAK*!   
SEVEN DAYS A *WEEK*!  
WET AND *GUSHY*,   
MAKE THAT PULL-OUT GAME *WEAK*  
WOO!   
*AH!!!*🎶  
  
Rolling my eyes,   
admitting defeat,  
I add in a little twerk   
to my zombie stumble   
out of the sheets.  
  
If I'm barred from beaming the news,   
I guess I’ll dance with the divas.  
  
Message received, Siri.  
**“‘Got it!’”** I shout.