Prompt and poem.
Enter a prompt.
Receive a poem.
Processing.
The machine is processing.
I’m not.
I am a spectator to the prompt.
But it was my prompt.
My flicker of a soul flame that was handed over.
to the soulless.
For Processing.
And I’m a spectator to it,
so that I can see how I might feel.
if only I’d let myself feel it all the way through.
So, the words populate the screen.
and they look like some little Nancy Myers vision of a Sylvia Plath nightmare.
distilled into familiar phrases and rhythms.
But I’m the one whose burning,
while a machine takes my flame.
and burns my world,
and leaves me burnt,
but not warmed.
Anyway, the prompt was
I’m unemployed and a parent.
Thanks, I hate it.
(See?
I can use memetic phrasing too, bot.)
Do what you love,
and you’ll never work a day in your life.
Became doing what I loved
in two part time jobs,
with hours of commute in between them.
So, I got used to working being my whole identity.
And now we’re a generation unemployed,
and what’s the identity in that?
Little motors whirring without working.
Work is force times distance.
And I’m forcing it
but I’m getting nowhere.
That’s how you know I’m out of work .
So, I guess the machine made me mad enough to poem about it.
Thanks, I guess I like it.