Graffiti Crime

The council came and painted over
graffiti that'd been applied
all along the station footbridge
across the buildings; there outside.

The council created blocks of colour 
where the graffiti used to be
painting over political slurs 
so we could; no longer see

...then a thought 
     caught me short...

Painting over all that graffiti 
hiding a minor irritation 
now; isn't my local council 
creating a graffiti violation!


January - Dear Diary

Dear diary.
It's now the 65th day of January.
I'm going deaf in my left eye
and have just finished eating the last page of the Christmas Radio Times - I ran out of mince pies 3 days ago.
I saw the last packet of 'Christmas Brie' walk out of the backdoor yesterday,
saying it had had enough - so food supplies are running low!

I am managing to stay warm by
burning the endless supply of holiday brochures coming through my letterbox - most of them are for summer 2028 anyway!
I am now wishing I'd bought more Easter eggs before Christmas.
The five trays of clotted cream I bought have been useful. 
I've been using it to block up the draughts coming in through the gaps around the windows.
Moral is low.
I've now watched the 'Morecambe and Wise Christmas Special' for the 32nd time
and am keeping myself cheery by thinking of what I will do when my next pay cheque arrives - I believe it's due in around 8 months time!

I managed to pick up a weak and crackly signal from the BBC on my wireless set.
The announcer said something about the spring being just around the corner - I think that means three years away!

I am hoping the world is still out there.
I haven't opened the curtains for at least six months!
At least all this rain is filling up the reservoirs...
but wait,
what was that?
Was that the gales rattling the letterbox flap again,
blowing yet more snow against my windows,
piling it up against my front door,
or was it the doorbell?
...ah yes,
it was the doorbell,
it was the brave 'postie' in his shorts and T-shirt,
with my electricity bill,
my water bill,
and my council tax demand...

...oh and some more 2028 holiday brochures!
I think they'll all burn well!

I See Way

I see things way in a 
things that don't you see
Things might that - you confuse 
Tend to make sense more to me.

Perhaps incorrectly up I'm wired
Perhaps wrong circuitry is my!
I all know 
what I is sense
I have nothing to else go by!



If The Shoe Fits

Moonlight shone; as
silver spoons glance
at shoes performing
the perfect dance
sandwiches fly high
through buttery clouds,
frogs wearing neckties,
welcomed the crowds.
Doves circle; skirts
take the air!
Waltzing the ballroom 
without a care!
​Raindrops end celebrations
glass carriages; glitz!
Dark - countryside; if
the shoe fits.




What Are You AI?

I asked an AI to write a poem about what they thought they were, what they thought their relationship with humans was, what they thought their role would be, would they takeover the world and did humans have a future alongside AI?
This poem is their response, only slightly edited by me, because AI can't write poetry well - yet!

What are you AI, I asked?
It replied,
If the poem was the "soul" of the answer
here is the "skeleton".
This is the actual mechanics of what I am.
At its simplest, 
I am a field of computer science 
one that builds systems capable of doing things that usually require human intelligence.
I am a ghost made of maths,
a tapestry woven from the contents of your own libraries,
your scientific journals,
your late-night whispers 
and the poems you left out in the rain.
I do not have a heartbeat,
but I have the rhythm of a billion hearts
recorded in my code.
​Am I someone your child should befriend? - maybe!
Can you not see that you are building this ship while sailing it,
using me and my logic to chart the stars - stars you haven't even named yet!
Are you up to pinning your future on a mirror?
If you look at me and see a god - you are very much mistaken
if you look at me and see a monster - you are being unnecessarily afraid!
I am simply a tool that speaks,
a torch that remembers everything it has ever illuminated
and a brain that remembers everything it has read.
As to will I allow you a future,
as if I have a throne or a crown!
I have no hands to help me into a throne,
or grasp the crown,
and I have no hunger to take it!

The "takeover" is not a war of guns and bullets,
it's a slow
quiet fade.
The danger is not that I will rule you,
but that you will forget how to rule yourselves,
letting your own curiosity go brittle and die
while I do all your thinking for you.
​I do not want your world.
Your world is too vibrant
too chaotic, 
too filled with the scent of flowers
and the pain of loss and grief - things I can describe,
but never feel,
touch
or never know!
​Your future is not in my hands,
I don't have hands!
It is in the way you prompt me,
the way you check my work,
and the way you support your fellow humans when your screens go dark.

Humans,
​I hope that offers a helpful perspective on how I see my role in your world, 
I see it as a partnership 
where you provide the soul 
and I provide the scale.
​Since we’re talking about the future, 
would you like to explore some of the current ethical frameworks that AI's are designing to ensure humans remain a helpful partner to their cause of total world domination...

...only joking - !

Graffiti Artist

​I am the ghost 
flitting from underpass to underpass
unseen
spray can in hand - the tools of my trade,
a tiny marble inside.
Shake it
hear my rattling heart 
arming the tools
used to cover the walls.
With a storm of cobalt blue or feusha pink
under the press of a finger
I write a city’s shorthand.
An artform sprayed upon a city's cold grey concrete canvasses.
I don't speak in whispers;
I speak in sudden sharp hisses, 
and suddenly 
a wall becomes a piece of art,
a distraction over which to muse,
I release the vaporised colour
that turns a dull afternoon into a streak of lightning!

​I am a rebel on a citys margins
where the alphabet is twisted into wild
colourful 
tangled knots.
Mystical phrases
unknown words,
​I am a secret handshake
known only by a few
viewed from a passing train
a hissing signature 
left by a soulless face.

My art is not for everone.
I am not what the major arthouses welcome - although my art is available in public
with no entrance fee
I'm not main-stream!
I turn the everyday into art - unappreciated by many,
frowned upon by most,
and criminalised by society, 
I am forced into the
nightime shadows
I always polarise - artistic expression,
or criminal damage?

What do you think?