By Machine

Man is always survived by Machine.
In bits and parts that as a whole
don't function, out of order, mind and soul
disrupted, no mediator in between.
The grey and padded cells that hold
us together, and in safety, open wide
to let the contents out, in for a ride.
A fair share of the mare, rather old,
displeased with easy rhymes, well-read,
it feeds on poets behind the clinking bars
and steaming fuming samovars.
Well, horsey, get your oats, it's time for bed.
Who wants to live for ever, to be left
behind, despised, made fun of, paralysed?
Write poetry in envy, overdrawn, capsized,
denying accusations of a theft.
Man is survived by memory, not fact.
Some dialogue bits that seldom keep intact.
Some verbal outcome you're wont to call opinions,
but never big enough to qualify for genius.
It's not that I object, although it's wicked.
If that's all right with mama, then it's cricket.
Machine holds the responsibility, that's true,
it stays, it does the work, amidst so much ado.
A plate engraved with daily acids, grim
and sooty, to commemorate the blunder.
Perception dim, and evidence so slim.
Life's just a field that sets two poles asunder.


25 апреля 2016 г.