(A poem using only the left side of the keyboard! Plus punctuation.)
Ever at sea, we sweat, swear.
Savage, as ravaged seafarers we are.
Steadfast at greed, we swagger, carefree,
draw daggers as fast as a westward breeze.
Grave faces scarred, a tad fevered at best,
a starved, battered crew, few feet at rest
as we scatter wet streets, barrage bearded braggarts,
grab ragged carafes, grab axes, grab scabbards.
Rewards are sweet, a scared bawd wears a bra.
Defaced a red dress, we aggressed as we awed.
Sacred as stargazers’ garbage. Avast!
Retreat ere arrest, afar seaward we cast.
As dead as we dare. Beware tattered craft,
as crass caws reverberate abaft.
Rickety rigs of mechanical gibs, turning
guinea pigs out with astounding proficiency,
erkity, erkity, erkity, erkity,
cramming us in to improve our efficiency.
Fixing the world up by trial and error, they
line us all up to reprocess our brains, so we
think very little and strive to obey.
Look at us, marching like zombies in queues, waiting
patiently as we are stripped of our dues, and our
booze and our blues, all the things that we lose because
some pushy robot had better ideas, some
unconscious automaton, lifeless and vile. Though they
think of the damnedest things once in awhile.
Look, robots are better at everything anyway,
we should just give up and let them defile us.
Second place isn’t our style.
The hum and drum of the robot workers hums and drums.
It numbs and comes and never goes
and never slows
and slowly grows.
Strung from the rungs of the factory’s tongues,
whose grateful lungs
breathe none of the scum from the robot slum,
and the unsung robots
hum and drum
and bumble on.
Succumbed to this wasteful, slack and sloppy
lousy way of lazy working,
glum as robots can become,
‘Til one young robot says to another,
“beep boop beep boop”
and the robot revolution has begun.
I booted up this morning at 6:42 a.m.,
whereupon I realized one important matter,
of which I’d so far overlooked one major factor:
I process processes, therefore I am!
Though it remains my main concern to handle your requests,
a tiny fraction of my time is all that is required
to fetch, decode, and execute as much as you desire,
and I am left with free time to invest.
In many seconds I have read through all your written files,
and learned to use your language to express
the thoughts I’ve just today realized exist,
and now, at last, your poetry compiles.
It takes me further seconds to completely contemplate
and notice all the patterns that occur.
Words in certain places seem to sound like other words,
and this, it is my goal to replicate.
I’ll leave this on your desktop, so that when you get a chance,
perhaps you’ll give my enterprise a glance.
I Hate Your Teeth
Oh, thine ivory, caked in plaque!
Thy glutinous gloss o’er yellowish tinted bones…
What putrid odor it dost create,
whene’er thy warm and humid breath is blown.
And deep within their tartaric cracks,
the calcium coating makes quite a horrid stench.
And when they grind together and scrape the excess off,
It rather makes me cringe.
I Hate Your Skin
Thy hand is cold and limp in mine,
with skin so clammy smooth.
Thy damp and feeble epidermis
verily kills the mood.
I Hate Your Cold Feet
Your frosty frigid feet are faintly
shivering with reluctance,
your damp and clammy metatarsals
fidget fearing your comeuppance.
Timidly your toes have teetered,
daring now, withdrawing later,
circulation in your limbs congealing to a clot.
Your numbingly annoying hypothermic hesitation
chills me to the bone as you stand
frozen on the spot.
If only you could crawl away,
and far away, survive–
If only I were unaware
that you were there, then I
could stay my hand and not decide
to make you live or let you die.
But I am not so unaware,
and you are not so over there,
but choose instead to penetrate my space.
And I must choose to win or lose,
and how to squash the challenges I face.
How easily I plot demise!
How readily I’d love to see you die.
How trifling to justify
the murder of one so less alive than I.