I am not sleeping enough to write thoughtfully about any of the things I would like to, good or bad. I just backed a Kickstarter from the Paleontological Research Institution because I think a stuffed plush Dunkleosteus is one of the nicest birthday presents I could give myself. The stack of library books beside my bed now contains a copy of Elizabeth Goudge's Green Dolphin Street (1944) and a matching DVD of the 1947 film is waiting on my desk because I have decided to do this thing to myself. It's true they aren't good, but I'm not actually sure these examples of AI-written poetry are Vogon-level bad; I've seen worse from teenagers who just discovered e.e. cummings.
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- 1: Sit thee down and put them on
- 2: My life's a crooked mess of things I've broken with my head
- 3: ?פֿאַר װאָס זאָל איך אײַך געבן דירה-געלט אַז די קיך איז צעבראָכן
- 4: A second flood, a simple famine, plagues of locusts everywhere
- 5: So Krishna stole the butter, did he?
- 6: When I invited Frank and you back to mine for a mange tout when I meant ménage à trois
- 7: The shadows on the walls don't recognize me anymore
- 8: Well, you can't tell much from faces
- 9: This po-mo stuff is nice, but it's irrelevant to the way I feel right now
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