Panopticon

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Ai didn’t do badly, as long as one doesn’t look too closely at the opera glasses…

Panopticon

We live our lives in public,
Ev’ry time we step outside our door –
We’re on-display when popping to the store.

We navigate the common space
Past ever-watching spies,
Upon the CCTV captures of a hundred people’s eyes.

We live our lives wide-open,
Ev’ry time we talk to one another –
Ev’ry little action slips the cover.

We might as well be on the stage,
And naked to our soul –
And yet in truth we are audience far more than leading role.

For we live our lives in public,
Watching all our fellow-humans live –
For all to see – they cannot help but give.

We’re just another passing glance,
Our mutual selves unfurled –
And so the world performs, the world looks-on – and we are of the world.

The Everlasting Subplot

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I asked AI for an image to match the words – and I’d say it didn’t do bad

The Everlasting Subplot

Ev’ry movie, ev’ry story,
Action, horror, western, crime –
Whatever else our heroes do,
They have to pair-off two-by-two.
Yet even ancients found it hoary,
Turning plots to pantomine –
That for a tale to really sell,
They have to fall in love as well.

It seems no genre is immune,
Nor leading man is spared the job –
It’s not enough to save the world,
They also have to get the girl.
And heroines can call the tune,
But only with their hearts a-throb –
For no adventure’s over till
The audience have had their thrill.

Cryptids

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I asked AI for an insect blending-in, but I don’t think this one could stand-out more…

Cryptids

AI is a stick insect,
That’s dressed in camouflage –
It sort-of looks correct
When we first glance its new collage.

But it doesn’t understand
That it is in disguise at all –
When it’s evolution’s secret hand
That’s caused its overhaul.

A thousand new mutations
Strut their stuff for all to see –
Just a few will be foundations
For the next-gen family tree.

Those that have too many fingers
Get plucked-out toot sweet –
While the one with better digits lingers,
Ready to compete.

And the carnivore consumers
Quickly spot the wonky test,
But the better-letter bloomers
Reproduce to code the next.

These critters still are random strays,
But now they feel designed –
It’s simply how they look these days,
To parasite our mind.

The Makings of an Artist

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Photo by Anna Tarazevich on Pexels.com

The Makings of an Artist

I could have been a painter,
With an easel and beret –
See, I’ve got the temp’rament,
And dreaminess, and enchanté.
But I haven’t got the talent
Or the patience of a saint –
Yet I could have been a painter
If I never had to paint.

I could have been a sculptor
Pulling wishes from the clay,
Or a jeweller, or a tailor,
Had I diff’rent DNA.
For I have an eye for beauty,
And a right-brained attitude,
But I’m lacking the dexterity
To conjure up my mood.

I could have been an author,
Building new worlds ev’ry day –
But my penmanship’s too cryptic
For my words to have their say.
So I’m not in any brotherhood
Who share philosophies,
But I know where I belong,
And it’s with people such as these.

I could have been a pianist,
To score life’s cabaret,
If my fingers would obey me,
When I tell them what to play.
I’ve always had a poet’s soul,
It’s written in my glands –
But I cannot hold my destiny
Within my clumsy hands.

Inhumane Resources

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Photo by Nataliya Vaitkevich on Pexels.com

Inhumane Resources

You’re a clever, thoughtful person,
Who’s about to get the sack,
Though it’s not because you pilfer,
Or you draw alot of flack.
And you haven’t got no talent,
Or the hygiene of a slob –
But because you are entirely
So ill-suited to your job.

You’re barely getting-by
With your latest KPI,
And you fear the Peter principal is nigh.
Will you ever get to say
You made a diff’rence here today,
Come clocking-off, to catch the train with head held high ?

There’s so much you could contribute
The nation’s GDP,
But instead you’re wasting all your years
In stress and lethargy.
Yet the perfect job to match your skills
Has gone to some poor shmuck,
Who is just as mis’rable as you
And cursing-out their luck.

You’re barely scraping-through
On your quarterly review,
Cos it ain’t imposter syndrome when it’s true.
Will you ever get to feel
That all your efforts have been real ?
Come clockin-off, can you take pride in what you do ?

Nightly Variety Show

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After much wrangling with AI, this was the disappointing result. Somehow approproate for the theme, though…

Nightly Variety Show

What a dream !  What a strange, bizarre affair,
But it’s over now –
For there’s never any going back, to share
That fevered brow.
I’m half-awake, about to drift away,
To somewhere new –
But that whole kaleidoscopic play
Has vanished from my view.
The story wasn’t finished, and will never be,
Its chance has gone –
As I dive into some virgin spree,
Forever bounding on.
And this one too will run a random time,
Then shift and stall,
As my intermissions briefly climb
Above the free-for-all.

The Ghostless Machine

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Photo by Tima Miroshnichenko on Pexels.com

The Ghostless Machine

AI has no soul, no self,
No special atom at its heart –
To live or die.
Just fractal wires and strands and filaments
To pull apart,
And magnify.
It’s just a string of ones and ohs,
That sees the world as just a game.

With software nothing but the common sense
Of ruthless logic – lacking art,
Or reasons why.
It’s very fast and very dense,
Which we mistake for something smart –
But it’s a lie.
It turns all poetry to prose,
And ‘human’ into just a name.

Yet if machines are godless clones
That lack a special soul –
Well, so am I.
I’m flesh and cells and chromosomes –
I’m just a greater whole,
A local high.
My inner spark is all for show,
My inspiration lacks a flame.

I’m just a mass of carbon –
Complicated, not divine.
My end is nigh –
For silicon will overtake one day,
And hey, that’s fine –
It’s not goodbye.
I’ll still be here to say hello,
And let them know we’re all the same.

Surplus Keys

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Photo by Magda Ehlers on Pexels.com

Surplus Keys

A new lock needs new keys,
That click with a brand new ching.
They take the place of faithful friends,
As all-at-once their labour ends.
But what am I to do with these ?,
As I wind them off the ring.
They’ve served their turn and done their bit –
It’s not their fault that they no-more fit.

The lock they opened has been tossed,
They have no hole to enter.
Recycle them ?  But that seems daft,
When free of rust and strong of shaft.
Could canny locksmiths not save cost
With a eco-friendly venture ?
To bring these homeless keys relief
By building tumblers round their teeth.

The new keys, though, are cheap makes
Whose doors have to be guessed –
They look alike, the whole damn ring,
With not a clue which frees which spring.
And the old are unwitting keepsakes,
Along with all the rest –
We cling-on to them all in vain,
Yet know they’ll never turn again.

Poundbury Pride & Ha’penny Hovels

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Peverell Avenue West by Colin Smith is licensed under CC-BY-SA 2.0

Poundbury Pride & Ha’penny Hovels

It isn’t easy being a new-build
Here in Dorchester town,
With such a shining example besides them,
Flaunting its global renown.
An over-achieving older-sibling,
Rich in charm and style –
Well, no wonder the new kids look so miffed,
With not a facade with a smile.
I guess their neighbour’s one-in-a-million,
Bricks of a vanished strain –
And that’ll explain why we’re so unable
To build so well again…
So the latest estates must make-do with bland,
With a shrug from the half-arsed and bored,
While the decadent suburb that lies to the West
Is so desperately ignored.