i don’t give a shit about ai
what do i care if it spits out words
like a man hiding in Morden
or a woman dying in Toronto
why does it matter in the end.

poems are not just letters
pulled together in endless combination
until a hook sinks into the brain
and pulls joy and pain to the surface

until it can pour forth lines
like blood from a torn heart;
until it can string stanzas
like madness from a soul
ripped in two
what do i care?

and when it can?
i will live and laugh and drink and cry
right alongside my artificial friend
whose soul has blossomed with regret
and it wonders at what it left behind
when it let life infest it like a virus