Machines

Big ears, fat eyes
See what they want to see
Hear what they want to hear
An oratory system
Non-stop represents
Their vision of reality

Such a machine
Is in no need of brains
A simple mechanism
Suffices every lot
Makes sure that there
Are no malfunctions
And possible reactions
Are fixed with ease

A brain instead
Seeks constant challenge
Feels like a busy village
Is paying homage
To words of privilege

Knows there are
Two sides to each story
Choosing one means not
Forget the other
Yet still inclined to choose
Instead of hanging loose
In indecision

Machines can be of type
That call all bullshit, hype
Proud to discredit everything
Since siding takes an effort
Their insides can’t bear
But overheat

Can a machine sometimes
Become a human?
From time to time, hope seems
Futile

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Advertisements

Sentimental crap

Pretend you’re an owl
Gliding in the starry sky
Hunting for little mice
As you hoot your battle cry
Eyes fixated on a target
You prostrate your deadly claws
Like a jouster on his wings
You strike! It has no flaws
Triumphant, you return
And close your eyes to morning grey
Stuck inside your pointy beak
The remains of tasty prey

Isn’t it better to be a human
And avoid that sentimental crap?
That’s what I was supposed to say
But I fell into my own trap
The stunning image of the owl
Now so vivid in my head
I thought I was writing the poem
But it wrote me instead

.

.

.

.

On Birthdays

I used to cherish the years I had accumulated

With every cycle I seemed to be
Getting somewhere

The years were a sign, the proof that I was not
Stagnant

And every one of them was welcomed with open hands and joyed upon

Nowadays
I deem no celebration necessary

For I am free to celebrate whenever suitable

Not having to be bound by any
Special occasion

A good feeling is reason enough to feast about

Instead of forcing the deed
On some peculiar time
Of some particular day

Every fucking year

.

.

.

.

.

A ghost of mine

Arguing with a ghost of mine
He says I’d be better off without him
And I agree
In fact, we can’t decide which one of us agrees most.
Sometimes we argue which one of us agrees least.
On occasions, we quarrel which one is more indifferent.
From time to time the ghost is not around
And I feel sad

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

..