It’s the latest addition to the frightening list
soon, they say, we wordsmiths will be unnecessary
machines will vomit
everything they need to get our messages across.
Across where? Who knows?
Giant buckets of dictionaries, heated,
agitated until, with a burp of punctuation, a sentence escapes.
A grammatically correct construction:
born to be an FAQ, the small print, the guff and bumf that stiffen the spine of letters from the bank,
the unloved paragraphs of legal disclaimers and descriptions of sports socks in catalogues.
if no one reads it, does it matter if no one wrote it either?
Out of interest, I asked an AI poetry generator for a poem about this picture
The Hot Air Balloon and the Sheep
See the rising of the ballast,
I think he’s angry at the sallust.
He finds it hard to see the field,
Overshadowed by the green james garfield.
Who is that grazing near the dawn?
I think she’d like to eat the don.
She is but a high sheep,
Admired as she sits upon a cat sleep.
Her still car is just a lamb,
It needs no gas, it runs on beckham.
She’s not alone she brings a sky,
a pet bird, and lots of ly.
The bird likes to chase a heat,
Especially one that’s in the gleet.
The ballast shudders at the high basket
He want to leave but she wants the casket.