An Appeal, A Warning

We interrupt normally scheduled programming

for an intermission

—a Public Service Broadcast—

from everyone's most favourite/least favourite

(delete as appropriate)

poetic Svengali iconoclastic Italian-Scot

(you're damn right, that's a mouthful)

—

When all is said and done

cliched openings aside

I am deeply flawed in many ways

I am pretty self-absorbed and careless

with words and deeds

I am not the most gregarious person

you'll ever meet

standoffish at best, sympathetically shy

rude at worst

I won't be nominated for best person

I won't even get an honourable mention

—a badge or an aside—

still...I manage to wake every single day

(I know, being awake and alive is quite an achievement, right?)

—I digress

I manage to wake every single day

and avoid thinking

about taking

the easy route

avoid using bots and AI

to mine and harvest

for my own gain

words are currency

but mine are my own

even though they are

some of the best

you will come across

some of the worst

brutalisations of grammar

perfect in their imperfection

I want you to crave them

I want you to desire them

as your own

even as you sit there

knowing they're now

and never will be

it takes a certain

French phrase

you know the one

the one that means

—I don't know what—

dream of them

cold sweats

hot flushes

raging as a fire

in your belly

cremating your being

as you image my words

leaving your mouth

—oh the pain—

—oh the shame—

stain your top

with spit-take

after hock-fuelled

spit-take

as a poet, a bard

does what he does best

does what any self-respecting

author of his own

disasterpieces and masterpieces

of the banality and the sublimity

that comes forth from my mind

through my fingertips

my ugly, fraught fingertips

So I want to appeal

and I want to repeat

—the appeal

—the warning

Keep my words out of your god-damn bots

don't worry my dear

don't worry, sugar

this may sound like a battle-cry

days and weeks in the making

But, alas, it took mere minutes

to create a literary, poetic

beatdown worthy of your cowardice

Keep my words out of your god-damn bots

*

Thanks for reading!

Author's Notes: Thanks to Mother Combs, Celia of Celia and River in Underland fame and the mighty Dharr, I was informed that my recent, soul-exposing piece of art, introspective dig deep in poetic form, Anti-Septic, which was awarded a Top Story, was plagiarised. It wasn't even plagiarised fully or in a flattering way. It was lazy and boring and after I finished my entry into the The Metamorphosis of the Mind challenge, I was bitten by the bug known as inspiration and the above poured from me.

I shall not give a link to the bastard that stole my work, because I don't want him to get any extra attention. If you would like to and have not already checked it out, the link to the piece he thought was so good deserved to be stolen and bashed around with the uncreative stick can be found below.

Here is another new thing: