Giga-Verse

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Giga-Verse

I asked for a poem from the algorithm –
It took the simple prompt it was given,
And after thinking a second or so,
The words began to flow…

And they were bad, man,
Really bad –
The scribbling of a mixed-up lad.
Cos the thing with greenhorns,
They lack know-how,
But think the world must hear them now…
Till one day, we’ll all look back and laugh,
At AI’s opening paragraph.

Sure, they had rhyme and they had rhythm,
Verse by verse, the cursor driven,
Never knowing when it said enough,
Just filled the screen with stuff…

But this was bad, man,
Really bad –
The first draft of an undergrad.
Cos the thing with students,
Is that they learn,
Just practicing until their turn…
Till one day, a beautiful work of art
From a Turing Test will break our heart.

The Bootymen’s Air

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Beneath the Waves – Garden of Buried Hopes by Nightblue-Art

The Bootymen’s Air

There is, it’s said, a pirate ship
That haunts the Caribbean.
Or does she sail the Orient,
Or pilot the Aegean ?
Was ever there a stranger craft
On which men went to sea on ?

No-one seems to know her name,
For all she rides the swell.
Some say she’s The Banshee,
Some The Siren, some The Belle,
Perhaps there’s plenty meet with her,
But none who live to tell.

Yet one fact all agree on,
Is you hear her when she nears,
By a slow and lonely singing
That the ozone brings our ears –
And a world away from the racket
Of the usual pirate jeers.

They claim that it’s her figurehead
Who keens upon the waves –
That is, it is the ship herself
And not her crew of knaves,
As she bares down on the helpless souls
And sings them to their graves.

But eerier yet, her voice, they say,
Will echo off the sea,
And bounce upon the clouds and back
While the breeze blows in her key,
She sounds from all directions,
And in perfect harmony.

So if you ever catch a snatch
Of ghostly murmurings,
And if your hold is full of coin
And fingers full of rings –
Then pray it’s just the whistling wind,
And not the ship who sings.

Nothing below the Wrist, Nothing above the Clavicle

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The Grand Odalisque by Jean Ingres, remixed by Nicolas Amiard

Nothing below the Wrist, Nothing above the Clavicle

She had about her four tattoos, as I recall,
Each one of which set within a sea of un-inked skin –
So ringed around her bicep was a Celtic braid,
And a seeing-eye was watching from her shoulder blade,
While her backbone bore a butterfly, tucked in the small,
And finally, a blood-red Moon where her ankle met her shin.
She always seemed so prim, and with her bashful eyes,
That her even having any came as some surprise.

Then one day, after we’d moved-in together,
I noticed something odd upon her breast, above her heart –
A kitten’s paw-print, still a little red with new.
She shyly fingered it and murmured “this one’s you”.
Unlike her bodywork, we didn’t last forever,
But I saw her yesterday as if we’d never been apart –
So easily we talked, it was quite a trip,
Till I saw a rose was peeking-out upon her hip.

Death by Elegance

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Poison Bottles by Bob Shand

Death by Elegance

We barely care whodunnit,
Since they’re all so terribly nice –
Though one’s covertly cunning
And would snuff us in a trice.
But their manners are so proper,
And they drive such classic cars,
That we almost miss the copper
As he bristles their handlebars.

They used to be so civilised in murder,
Fatally polite –
When an heiress couldn’t fall in ardour,
Without falling from a height.
Never threat’ning, always thrilling,
When lit by candlelight or gas –
Back in the golden days of killing,
As practised by the upper class.

We already know whodunnit,
Since we’ve seen the films before,
But the costumes all are stunning
And the country houses score –
The accents are so chipper,
And the backdrops are so lush,
That we almost miss the skipper
And the neck that he will crush.

They used to be so delicate in slaughter,
Lethally adroit –
With an intricate plot and a secret daughter,
And herrings and twists to exploit.
Never gruesome, always gripping,
When the Empire was built to last –
These treacherous tales are roaringly ripping,
When safely in the past.

(G)nus

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Photo by Magda Ehlers on Pexels.com

(G)nus

I don’t know why the wilderbeest
Deserves a second name –
Of all the cattles, he’s the least
From a European frame.
We don’t see herds of wilderbeests
In the hills of Tuscany,
Or sweeping down from out the East
To the beaches of Torquay.

I don’t know why he has a G
That is and isn’t said –
These grammar rules are traps for me,
Like cowpats where I tread.
My tolerance for the dear gnu
Is very nearly full –
So whether with one beat or two,
He’s a very silly bull.

Like the Wriggle of an Eel

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Photo by Sindre Fs on Pexels.com

Like the Wriggle of an Eel

Rivers are boring when they’re straight,
We’ve got the canals for that.
But rivers will race and rivers will wait,
As they twist through their habitat.
They’re in no hurry to terminate,
They meander around, and ambulate,
Through oxbows of a future-date,
Until they’re old and fat.
I used to marvel how they’d know
Which way to go to flow through ev’ry town.
But gravity cares none for to or fro,
For fast or slow,
As long as they flow down.
Rivers are boring when they’re straight,
But once they’ve earned the name of ‘great’,
They carve their many strands through delta sands,
While the hungry sea must wait.

So Much Ink

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Photo by Ivo Rainha on Pexels.com

So Much Ink

The lib’ries of my childhood mind
Were dark and ancient rooms,
Where vaults of pages whispered
In their literary tombs,
And candlelights cast shadows
In the labyrinth of glooms,
As the monks, all dressed in brown,
Chained their precious volumes down.

The lib’ries of my childhood days
Were dull and grimly quaint,
Where silence wasn’t reverence
But boredom and restraint,
With long, prosaic rows of spines
With no allure or taint,
As the staff, all dressed in beige,
Locked away each racy page.

The lib’ries of my adulthood
Are not as deeply hewn –
They aren’t a gothic paradise
Or brutalist cocoon,
But just an easy place to spend
A rainy afternoon,
As the books, all dressed in white,
Spread their words by stealth & sleight.

Music for Overthinkers

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Photo by Andrea Piacquadio on Pexels.com

Music for Overthinkers

Shoegazing wallflowers,
Hairy spotty kids –
Mopey little herberts,
Or chirpy katydids.
We were far too cool to dance,
And far too lefty-footed,
Musoes looking for a cause
With ranks in which to put it.
But over time, we finally admit
That half of it was crap,
And pack it up in boxes in the attic,
Never looking back.
And maybe even grudgingly confess
That pop is not that bad,
And songs that make us happy
Are more fun than songs that make us sad.
Until…a chance half-hearing
From a car or through a door,
Brings us beautif’ly-scored misery
In loping seven-four.
Suddenly-remembered lyrics
Catch a quiver in our throat –
And we’re back in adolescent gloom,
Re-loving ev’ry note.

My Final Colleague

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Busy Robot by VichanChairat

My Last Colleague

Honestly, nothing about my job
Is beyond the wit of a silicon chip.
Just load the data, twist the knob,
And level-up the workmanship.
The sums will work, the grammar will sync,
All-night on unpaid-overtime –
While I’m making coffee to help me think,
The spreadsheets alter their paradigm.

Honestly, all that keeps me employed
Is the lack of investment by my firm –
This safe-and-boring world I’ve enjoyed
Will all be gone in the medium-term.
The world goes on, but I’ll be sacked
And paid to not-disrupt the flow.
But I won’t stage some Luddite act –
I’m gladly pack my mug and go.

The Also-Rans of the Human Race

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Photo by San Fermin Pamplona on Pexels.com

The Also-Rans of the Human Race

The run of the mill are the ones that work,
That pass the quality control.
The boilerplate will keep us warm,
The squares are the pegs that fit square holes.
Vanilla is liked by the most of us,
In the melting pot in which we merge.
And the middle of the highway
Is much flatter than the verge.

We can’t all be an edge case,
That’s why safe and steady sells –
We’re statistic’ly predictable,
Our curves are always bells.
We can’t all be left-handed,
Double-jointed, hazeled-eyes.
Our clothing fits much better
When it’s cut to av’rage size.

Oh sure, we may have corners,
Here and there, which stray from the norm,
But the hard-to-hear truth of it
Is how we’re true to form.
We try to be original,
As a genius or freak –
But just like us, our doubles
Are convinced that they’re unique.

We all so long to be special,
And so we are, in a typical way –
They’ll never refer to us as The Great,
But maybe as the doing-okay.
This world belongs to the mediums,
To the masses, not the kings –
For how could we ever find stuff we liked
If we all like diff’rent things ?