The Poetry Machine

There is practically no human activity that is not infringed on by a computer of some make or shape. We are analysed, categorised, monitored, measured, scheduled, advised, informed, misinformed, tested, corrected, abused, amused and generally pummelled into a state of dependency on computers in all their sneaky manifestations.  I have decided to accept the all pervasive nature of the computer and have taught my computer how to write poetry. This is taking me down a dangerous path where I get dumber as my computer gets smarter and more sophisticated.  Below is the first attempt of The Poetry Machine. I asked it to write a poem about itself writing a poem but from my perspective. This is to save me from thinking.

The Poem Machine

I think I’ve found a formula
For making perfect poems
With easy clear instructions
For rhythms, shapes and rhomes.

I know, I know, it should be rhymes
This is my first attempt
To build a type of poem machine
And so I can’t be blempt

For prototype malfunctions
I can get it right
But ‘til I make adjustments
The poems are really shite.

Now the rhythm section is not really quite right just yet you see and also …  damn it
Line-lenght I forgot to set
But now that I’ve  adjusted it
The rhyming’s gone to pet.

Wait, hold on just a minute
I’ll try a few more tweeks
And maybe this new  poem machine
Will work tomorrow or next weeks.

Next weeks? streaks, meeks, bleaks,
Reeks, Magillacuddy, mountains,
Glens, valleys, vales and fountains
Lochs, lakes  and water; bought her

Stockings, lingerie, sensuous lips
Legs and love and lust and zips
Oh Cripes! this crazy poem machine
Is cracking up,
It’s lost control
It’s locked into a sub-routine
Of women sex and thoughts obscene.
It’s pumping words out
Crude and blunt,
No, no, I cant rhyme that
Or I’ll be sunt
To prison for obscenity
It’s this machine m’lud, not me.

I’m simply it’s amanuensis
It’s gone mad
And lost its senses.

Dermot McCabe

Dermot McCabe