“We are full of ghosts and spirits; we are as grave-yards full of buried dead, that start to life before us. And all our dead sires, verily, are in us; that is their immortality. From sire to son, we go on multiplying corpses in ourselves; for all of which, are resurrections. Every thought’s a soul of some past poet, hero, sage. We are fuller than a city.” —Herman Melville
https://youtu.be/PvLGxLq74QE?feature=shared
my li'l pomes are just mine AI does not help me refine I putter slowly, no real zest The AI writing is the best I only use my poor old brain sweating out a crude refrain it takes so long to fashion lines by hand and brain and pain refined and all that peeps forth into day is doggerel that has its day
Looking out, there is no sign What seemed so steady you ca'n't find I do not want to go to sleep the dreams awaiting me so deep And morning bringing Sun so cold Another day to make me old I do not want to sleep and yet I stay awake with much regret I fear the pillow, fear the sheets I fear the sleep that slowly creeps bringing dreams of pain and sorrow harbingers of my tomorrow off to bed, that nightly nest a little death, a little rest I do not want to take that trip yet will-I, nill-I off I'll drift I hope tomorrow does not come or find me sitting under Sun yet there I'll be, with morning face cup of tea and staggering pace looking out, I see no sign what seemed so steady I ca'n't find
I made a pome... No one read it. So I thought, "A little edit!" I tweaked and twisted, prying pulling... I did not think 'twould be so grueling! I disassembled every sentence... Got down to the very words.... Pulled apart the syllables... Deconstructed every verb... Trampled every rhyme scheme... Kicked them to the curb. I looked and saw what I had left ... A pile of letters looking shoddy. "At last!" I said, my heart a-glow, "My poetry is disembodied!" 😉
In the corner, I sit, a bit out of sync, As they dive into talks, I can't quite link. Mushrooms, not for supper but for the mind, They talk of trips to worlds I've not designed. Disembodied poetry, they ponder with zest, I chime in, "I guess poetry's best when undressed!" They chuckle, then back to their AI tales, Leaving me to smoke my weed, pondering life's details.
It is so lonely in the dark The many voices are all stilled The snow falls quietly in park The car is stopped, no more to mill The ice and snow beneath it's feet The ice on padded, snowy street The quiet hits me like a hammer No word, no talk, no sound to hear Aloness hits me through the ear No words to speak or read This is our human need
All I write are little scribbles... Motte and bailey, beach's sand. Your words a citadel does build: An edifice so grand!
