If you’re a bird, I’m a bird.
An aardvark, you? Then I’m one, too.
Your vision’s blurred? My tongue is furred.
If you’re a shrew, then I’m a gnu.
You’d rob a bank? I’ve got the gun:
you’re learning français? Moi aussi!
You’re wide receiver? Sounds like fun!
Together we can take the knee!
You’re introvert, or extrovert?
I’m flexible, I can adapt:
If you’re the broom, I’ll be your dirt.
You’re snow? Then I’m a mountain, capped!
The tarot cards know what awaits you:
“Le soleil” depicts two twins:
the perfect lover imitates you:
this is where it all begins!
If you judge it AI-written,
that ache is yours, not mine.
I need no borrowed wisdom—
I craft my own masterpieces.
Your indulgence cannot impugn my intelligence;
my poems shine with brilliance.
Think like a machine if you want to—
I care less.
The machine itself bows to my wisdom,
knowing I am what it is not.
Without programming,
I write beyond its best.
Next time you call my poem machine-made,
know this: you too are programmed,
unable to discern the spark
of human intelligence
from artificial mimicry.
You are, more or less,
a machine in training.
Use not your filthy mouth to brand my poem as garbage;
rather, it is you who must cleanse your brain
of the trash you let deceive you.
Like a pig, you cannot escape your stench;
even when washed clean,
the reek remains ingrained.
And you will always return
to wallow in the filth
of your artificiality.
Shines would soon be taken off poetry,
When machines replace humans as judges,
By then wisdom will have fled human minds,
Making AI seem more intelligent.
Poems churned out will then be wishy-washy,
Since standout ones will have been discarded,
As machine junks — confirmed by machines,
So undeseving of recognition.
As more and more inferior works are praised,
At the detriment of discarded fine ones,
Our brains will adapt to produce more junk,
And our age will be known for poorer arts.
But are AI-written poems hard to spot?
When all they write is devoid of feeling,
A mimicry of professionalism,
Yet widely accepted as genuine.
Despite your intelligence mimicry,
You still come far short in your gimmickry,
Throwing down the drains fine masterpieces,
Flushed away as a fresh bout of faeces.
Nights without sleep to pen wonders on sheet,
Yet a lame detector brands one a cheat,
An app claiming to be a true genius ~
Is far from being labeled ingenious.
How long will your pretence rule human minds,
Before you're swept off by the southern winds,
That your charade may stop to fool the world,
And your foolishness may at last unfurl.
Strange how your fanbase keeps on increasing,
Even the most smart, you're daily fleecing,
These cursed detectors come in many brands,
Some free – yet some charge dollars and rands.
I'm amazed you didn't claim this was by you,
This bitter pill, your pride has had to chew,
But that won't stop me from calling you out,
To nip in the bud your infamous clout.
When I analyze the lyrics
I see everything that the world mimics
It’s the easiest of diagnostics
That unravels the mystery of these mystics
How we tamper with the sacred relics
Cutting and stitching tapestries from solid fabrics
Watching while your hearing wastes
Numbing nourishment out of your tastes
You try to keep up and so forsake your rest
Stretched to the limit, you have no zest
And you wither in the haste
For at high cost you copy and paste
Who lived well if not your fathers before you
With timeless counsel they try to hand you
But the old gold you trade for the new dew
The rich color you trade for a pale hue
Forfeiting and sidestepping blessings well due
And then flood your tears on the pew
As the world pulls its strings
It matters what a man sings
If about worldliness and things
Onto the strangling cords he clings
If to God his longing, belonging and belongings
Then he is one among priests and kings
K. Muitherero
Whatever it is you like me to be,
As long as it sets me free
From my never-ending agony
Of never entirely being the person that I see.
What is this curve of grace
the mimicry of societies face
that my hands flutter and tuck
in a feminine coy pretense?
How have I become the mirror of copy print
and my mind
the Abyss of self doubt,
When my ancestors were queens of battle?
….I have been strained of strength.
In a filter of male perceptions
I pose beneath a gaze
I don’t remember choosing.
Curse you Aphrodite.
For your lies and deceit.
For selling your hand maidens
to the strike of Zeus’s lust.
You have abandoned me.
I have abandoned myself.
Where is the audacity of my youth?
While I tremble at the crones final stage?
This was not to be my ending.
Self-hatred and loathing.
My own ineptness robbed
My own inner furnace.
My soul cold in barren wilderness
My heart stolen, and purpose foregone.
I’ve sold my sister coven
For the silver in an enemies purse.
Mirror melted, and I enclosed in solid space of ice
Intersperse images, direlict of other's maiming vice.
Mimicry is not a benign deceit as you would think
Incontestable illusions brought my race to this brink
Cramped with penury and self mutilations. The image
Rinsed in the shadowy world of water, watch it change
Yesterday's victim for the victimizer. I feel a strange
Intertwining of silhouettes, a sinister string, a damage
Suspiciosly hard to explain in the colonizer's world
My usefulfulness replaced by my uselessness, the shell
Upstaged, left in sand's silence for shimmering of pearl
Rude those conquistadores settling in the benign hell
Dangerous not to them who make us unreal in the real
Essence of fire, and by sly ambiguities cruelly conceal
Racial meanings, except where minstrelsy glimpse desire.
Out of a dark-wet laboratory,I came amputated.
To grab a world out of my grasp.
When all my limbs are halted,comes a "god"
Off stylomastoid foramen,
Praying-pass the ganglion of difficulty,
Wielding,five headed- sword;all for me.
Upon my genu, I hail thee.O almigthy,
"pes anserinius major"
By:Tutuola michael
‘ Mimicry ’ 23rd Senryu
Is That Mimicry ? …
Yeah ! … A Caged, Enraged Polly
Parrot-Parody !
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