It appeared suddenly
from behind the smoky horizon,
a non-dimensional apparition
I like to call an artin,
with all its pretended musings
and occasional hallucinations—
not quite Hal or Skynet,
but who cares about the old bogeys
when one day you might find yourself
in Josef K.’s shoes?
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
Undecided
between the Metamorphoses,
the Pentateuch, and the Puranas,
Mr Honk pondered the reason
for his existence.
But whether it was divine
indifference, human boredom,
or generative model
hallucinations, he knew
he was nothing but
a by-product.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
Mr Honk suddenly felt the urge to write a letter,
only to end up writing a whole four and freezing
after that affectionate salutation when he realised
he had no addressee.
In his juvenile days he’d most likely write to Santa,
but now a bottle message seemed the only option,
though he was out of Diamant Bleu, and there was
the matter of pollution.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
No one reads poetry
on Friday night
or at all—even poets
prefer pub quizzes and a pint
to poring over Shelley.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
hidden pilcrow 