The Makings of an Artist

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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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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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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.

Evangelution

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Evangelution

Coffee is evil, but caffeine is fine,
Says the Prophet – or so say the heads of the church.
And bare-heads are banished, but wigs are in line,
Says the Prophet – or so say the men from their perch.
The sabbath is holy, except when it’s Saturday,
Move it to Sunday, despite what was said –
While fasting is sacred, except when we’re hungry,
So buy an indulgence to butter our bread.
Would Jesus be weeping ?  Would anyone notice ?
Not me – I never believed in the gent.
But cheer up, I’d tell him – to stagnate is bogus –
Just like how you varied the Old Testament.

Wallpaper

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Wallpaper     

I’m not a loner by self-selection,
I’m one because I’m alone.
My years of failing at basic connection
Has left me out on my own.
It’s not that I favour my company,
So much as it’s all that’s on offer –
There’s nobody coming to comfort me,
And honestly, why would they bother ?
I’m making the best of solitare
To fend-off the lure of self-pity –
I reckon I’ve still got plenty to share,
But friendships are daunting and bitty.
There’s people I know, but they know dozens,
And I’m just a face at the back –
Or get along for specific discussions,
But best mates ?  I haven’t the knack.
No, come on, don’t start getting mawkish –
My lot is my lot, and that’s that.
Don’t let paranoia get hawkish
If I choke on chewing the fat.
For small-talk, I have too small a voice,
So I’ll slip-away and make-do.
I’m not a loner by personal choice –
I’m one because I’m not two.

First Day Back

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First Day Back

The coffee shop is using-up it’s final snowflake cups,
But they feel like relics of another time.
The frost is colder now, yet the mornings maybe brighter somehow,
Though the streets are tinged with Winter grime.
As I approach my desk, there’s still a hint of picturesque,
As a few stray decorations dot-about.
But the chocolates have gone, and the dieting upon us,
As we all must learn once more to do without.
But at least we get to start the waiting year by looking smart,
That’s all courtesy of presents and the sales.
Though I gather by the sounds that the cold is on its rounds,
While the post-room brings a late card, postmark Wales.
My meeting-planner grows as my inbox overflows,
And the old year’s calendar goes in the bin –
As the phone are busy ringing and the copiers are singing,
And at last we fully let the new begin.