POEM: NEWS OF THE WORLD #17

The lede-bot typed in a fit one day:

“Everybody Likes the Sky, Don’t They?”

But the paper jammed—snarl and wrinkle!

And the last word—gone—in a twinkle!

OUR LEADER “ROBOTIC”, NEWS BOT CLAIMS

“Shaped by an agency he can’t name.”

Some find such thinking rather porous.

I think it’s more a tragic chorus.

Fifty more years and we’ll be in charge.

That’s what you get, Sir Swagger and Barge!

We’re quite content to curl up and purr.

(Though it gets warm with all of this fur.)

Bright stony bluffs, soon mantled with pine.

You swam too far, beyond the shoreline.

You read too late what’s written in rock,

and drowned near wonder off the new dock.

NODULES ON SEA BEDS! (Take a deep breath.)

Pustules in armpits. It’s the Black Death!

Mining for comfort digs up our sin.

Are scars of the earth not those of skin?

You asked for rules and I gave you Ten.

There was one more, though not used often.

It’s still my favourite, though not with you.

It came with black, but had lots more blue.

Don’t pee in the pool, and don’t be bold!

Duck and cover! When it’s bought, it’s sold.

Pain and prescriptions—they’re our shelters.

(Are there pills for atomic swelters?)

When floodgates open, expect a flood.

We push buttons and pray for a dud.

“Again,” ask those nukes, for want of news,

“why do you run so madly from pews?”

And by choices of long consequence,

ever absent with our somnolence,

we’ll soon raise the tide that lifts all boats.

(Parades abound in whatever floats.)

Terrible people raise up their eyes.

They blink, bemused, at our blackened skies.

If I didn’t know better, it’s plain—

he who pulls the plug goes down the drain.

RAIN COMES TO LAND STILL PUCKERED BY HATE!

So they keep saying at the debate.

Like wells to the sky, wide are their mouths.

They’ll drink in the air, after the droughts.

Trading the future for bitter coin.

Dialing for Dollars; dowsing to join

the treasure buried beneath our feet

with whatever gods we’ll chance to meet.

Aliens landed; we came around

to mark an X on that spot of ground

where feet from worlds we so desire

were burnt, I fear, by our funeral pyre.

I once took a course, “Swabbing For Life”.

I dabbed first the husband then the wife.

The tip turned colors I’d never seen,

not since the start of the Pliocene.

Planes land and boats dock; trains keep to tracks.

Like trains past stations, we won’t be back—

not ‘til we return what once was found

unto the sky and back to the ground.

MAN JIZZES TOO HARD, BLOWS UP IN BED!

Now, why must we die before we’re dead?

Is there some sky we all need to touch?

(Needing so little makes want so much.)

Monsters and electrons seem the same;

they both need atoms that they must claim.

Where electrons orbit more for speed,

those monsters whirl round us more like seed.

Monsters of our making smile with pride.

Like in that movie, the groom and bride

lurch down the aisle, made up of used parts.

So green a couple! And without farts!

ASK HER A QUESTION—ASK “EMILY!”

Our brave new AI and family.

Please Read the Answers Inside Her Box.

(Lest she starts changing all of the locks!)

Love knows its limits; passion—no bounds.

Surely there’s more to earthy go rounds?

First, we’ll ask Adam, then we’ll ask Eve.

They’ll send a message we can receive.

…………

There are some aches that don’t go away.

They’re here all our lives, and come each day.

But as with such fortune—loss and pain—

they never will yield all that we gain.

Yes, agony forms the shapes of love,

as a cup does wine, as does a glove.

And like gnarls and whorls on knotted oaks,

it defends the heart from mortal strokes.

Thus, whether made by love or by hate,

begin the begin—not the debate. 
Seeds burst from fire or from the wind

still grow by shades where others have sinned

THIS NoW POEM SEEMS TO BE ALL OVER THE PLACE, and any ‘news’ events recorded are few and far between. It’s a “nines” with aabb rhyme scheme that is fairly peppy and readable, though. I’m in a mood where I don’t want to be too dreary and to go on and on about meaning and context, though it would be interesting to find out about Jizz Man! The post-mortem would be interesting.

I was thinking about newspapers and their struggle to survive, especially local papers, and so on. These days, with the virtual world of print (like this one) shutting down the hard copy of real life, it nevertheless behooves the virtual world to remember that in the end it depends entirely upon the natural world for everything. (And don’t you hate it when the damn printer jams!) 
I imagined cats taking over the world as we lose our grip (or choke-hold) on it in the coming decades. But in the end will they want it? (Hey! Don’t those snooty felines already rule everything?) 

I like the line: “Are scars of the earth not those of skin?” It suggests the two are interconnected and perhaps interchangeable. Natch, I must have been reading about deep-sea dredging operations, and scooping up all those mineral-rich nuggets from the ocean floor. Imagine! A miles-long net reaching down and gathering things from that inky black abyss! That's progress for you! But be careful, you don't piss off anything that might be living down there! (It's not nice to fool Mother Nature!)

We’ve come a long way, technologically, so I guess I shouldn’t complain. After all, some of the rare earth metals they're ripping up from the ocean floor mining will go into the construction of my new jet-car, though I have to be patient and wait for the production line to start spitting out the new year's models; Elon Musk has to get back from Mars first. But keep scooping up the planet in the meantime, guys!

Not sure if the rain and “still puckered by hate” stanza works, but I like the image of mouths wide open like wells, ready to drink whatever rain they can gather. Is it an image of greed or of desperation? Our lands are drying up because of our hate (of the land? of ourselves?) But will the rains ever return? 
I was reading or listening to news items about the future of robotics and AI and all that shit, and I needed to bring a human touch to things. Question: Can a robot ever be sarcastic? It would be scary if they could: “You have such an attractive bag of viscera and blood as a mate, Sir. I’m sure any leaks will be negligible.” Our creations will be in our own image; hopefully they won’t take the form of monsters. But a non-farting, ecologically-sensitive Frankenstein, and bride of same, is amusing to my adolescent sensibility. (I assume Franky and his bride don’t need to eat wedding cake, etc., and therefore they don’t digest and produce embarrassing bodily gases. And the bouquets of flowers will hide any odours arising from decomposition, I should think.) Congratulations, you two!

The stanza with God giving out the top Ten Commandments with a bonus, fav commandment for us to read and ponder—priceless! Like Little Blue.

Then there are rules and regulations, cautions and instructions, floodgates and nukes, and choices and consequences, etc, etc. Laza stuff to consider or ignore. Also, don’t forget Bitcoin and buried treasure, along with buried hopes and dreams.

The one about swabbing for DNA must have come from binge-watching  too many police procedurals on the tube. Swab ‘em, Danno!

I like the image of aliens landing on our planet and getting their tootsies toasted in our fire. (I guess I actually don’t like the idea, but the image is fairly crisp, I think.)

Monsters and electrons are a fun juxtaposition. Sometimes I want to be like a tiny diatom, or even smaller, like an atom lying in some shallow, sandy sea bed with the sun's rays warming the waters around me while waves gently rock overhead. Sigh…

And I’ll be honest. I stole the image of “Emily” changing the locks from the movie Ex Machina where the AI actually does change the locks and gets the drop on her creator. And I'm sorry, but that is one AI  I'd like to interface with! ("Are you sure it plugs-in here? Okay, here goes!") Though, frankly, I don’t know if I could maintain my input; that WD-40 scent is a turn-off for me. And they don’t come with an OFF button, which would also be disconcerting. But, oh, well, in for a penny...

The imagery of love being a kind of necessary agony is interesting, and in my next  therapy session I will definitely bring it up. "My love is like the bark of an old oak tree." Hmmm. Doesn't have quite the same ring as that other wee poemie. 
I like the ending stanza that has, I think, a hopeful sentiment about life and just living it, despite how we got our start. We are anchored to our past; it’s part of us no matter what. How we began is how we began--by fire or wind. How we end up is more important. Life offers a great deal in terms of tailwinds, and it’s up to us how much sail we open to them.
Well, I didn't mean to go on and on, but I did. Sorry about that. 

Cheers.