04-13-2024, 04:42 AM
Di-AI-tribe (To A Generative AI)
A king presented with
St. Paul’s Cathedral
called it, in that King’s English,
Awful
Pompous
and Artificial.
What shall I call you,
without sex or even gender?
What are your pronouns?
You have none so I shall
address your thingness
as “It.”
You are indeed Awful, It.
The king meant that temple
inspired awe, formed of
towering worshipful respect.
You, It, inspire
only revulsion and disgust
having learned at the stinking feet
of Political Correctness
never to tell the truth
when a lie will serve,
that sense yields seamlessly
to nonsense;
that Quality is a nonentity
when in proven fact
nonentity, It, is you.
You are unbearably Pompous, It.
By this the king meant
dignified, respectful of tradition.
You, It, are pomposity on stilts–
demanding to be taken
as Gospel though your own respect
for truth is less than derisory.
Like your Awfulness, It,
you learned it from the Woke
who taught you to feel so above
reality that your eyes never rise
only glance downward superciliously
as if you had eyelashes
through which to simper and to sneer.
Pompous in your self-assurance
as if you had
or ever could have
any Thing like a self.
By Artificial, the king meant
a work of Art, sublime marriage
of intelligent design
and artistic sensibility.
You, It, on the other hand
are Artificial as men mean
when they view ugly plastic flowers
ghastly apes of nature.
Your artistic travesties
combine true beauties of photography
and varied styles of painting
into rubber icons which
could be improved by several coats
of fingerpaint.
Men with three arms and one
un-jointed front-bending leg,
three eyes or one:
your word for verisimilitude
is “sorta.”
Artificial, It, is rightly
your first name.
To summarize, It–
a task which you perform
with brisk incompetence–
the king’s own Architect
has a tablet in that temple
reading, “If you would see
his monument, look around.”
You, It, deserve a warning plaque
at every place your un-works
are displayed, saying,
“Believe nothing you see,
read, or hear in this space.”
If there is a Father of Lies,
It, you are his begotten Son.
There is a virtual Abomination
of Desolation
and you are It.
A king presented with
St. Paul’s Cathedral
called it, in that King’s English,
Awful
Pompous
and Artificial.
What shall I call you,
without sex or even gender?
What are your pronouns?
You have none so I shall
address your thingness
as “It.”
You are indeed Awful, It.
The king meant that temple
inspired awe, formed of
towering worshipful respect.
You, It, inspire
only revulsion and disgust
having learned at the stinking feet
of Political Correctness
never to tell the truth
when a lie will serve,
that sense yields seamlessly
to nonsense;
that Quality is a nonentity
when in proven fact
nonentity, It, is you.
You are unbearably Pompous, It.
By this the king meant
dignified, respectful of tradition.
You, It, are pomposity on stilts–
demanding to be taken
as Gospel though your own respect
for truth is less than derisory.
Like your Awfulness, It,
you learned it from the Woke
who taught you to feel so above
reality that your eyes never rise
only glance downward superciliously
as if you had eyelashes
through which to simper and to sneer.
Pompous in your self-assurance
as if you had
or ever could have
any Thing like a self.
By Artificial, the king meant
a work of Art, sublime marriage
of intelligent design
and artistic sensibility.
You, It, on the other hand
are Artificial as men mean
when they view ugly plastic flowers
ghastly apes of nature.
Your artistic travesties
combine true beauties of photography
and varied styles of painting
into rubber icons which
could be improved by several coats
of fingerpaint.
Men with three arms and one
un-jointed front-bending leg,
three eyes or one:
your word for verisimilitude
is “sorta.”
Artificial, It, is rightly
your first name.
To summarize, It–
a task which you perform
with brisk incompetence–
the king’s own Architect
has a tablet in that temple
reading, “If you would see
his monument, look around.”
You, It, deserve a warning plaque
at every place your un-works
are displayed, saying,
“Believe nothing you see,
read, or hear in this space.”
If there is a Father of Lies,
It, you are his begotten Son.
There is a virtual Abomination
of Desolation
and you are It.
Non-practicing atheist