Head up West and See the Lights

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You won’t believe how many times I had to ask AI to genenrate this image before it managed to spell it right…

Head up West and See the Lights

The neon lights of old Piccadilly-dilly
Used to be so bright and silly-silly,
But the screens have sprung-up willy-nilly –
Boringly displayed.

Now there’s nothing but advert-a-go-go,
Shouting products from ho-hum to so-so.
Art and style ?  I’m afraid that’s a no-no –
Over and over replayed.

Sell more junk food, flog more bling-bling,
Scream more news, from Bronx to Beijing-zhing,
Punching eyeballs, all for kerching-ching –
The goods must be obeyed.

The hungry billboards are always on-on
The Eiffel Tower needs a new Citroën-tron.
Buy buy buy till the stuff’s all gone-gone –
As long as the profits get made.

The Z-Factor

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Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

The Z-Factor

The world is full of av’rage talents,
Nothing-specials, soon-forgottens –
The world is full of you’s and me’s,
All dreaming silks but dressed in cottons.
Those stars are the ones-in-the-million,
While the million are all of we –
Ignoring one-another’s slop,
In search of stars we’ll never be.

Sun Bulbs

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Sun Bulbs

The daffodils are blooming
In my window-box again,
Just to show that Spring is looming
In the face of icy rain,
They sprout besides my sill once more
In planters perched on high,
As they cheer my second floor,
And bring a garden to the sky.

The daffodils are blooming
In my window-box again,
But they turn their heads from booming
Through the gloomy window-pane.
Instead, they stare at Winter Sun
Where all their real focus is.
I think next year, to stop the shun,
I’ll just grow crocuses.

Corporate Transport Body

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Slime mould recreating the Tokyo Metro

Corporate Transport Body

My body is a mass of public transit
Running through my flesh,
As supersonic neurons sprint down nerves,
Whose networks branch and mesh.
And food is ferried by the central core
That winds its way on down,
On through the stomach-hub,
And past the branch-line to appendix-town.
My lungs, meanwhile, are shuttling air
Upon the trunk-route to my nose,
And blood cells catch the tube to distant suburbs
In my hands and toes.
My brain contains the signal-box,
My heart contains the motive power,
Keeping my commuters moving
Through the rush and midnight hour.

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 ?