Thursday, June 29, 2017

Artificial Intelligence












Artificial Intelligence (a found poem)

for Inspirobot

Before inspiration comes the slaughter.
Try to tell yourself you are not horrible.
Ensure that a stranger feels ashamed.
Hate your body. Not idiots. A bitch
loves everybody. Profit on your idols.
Fear a tiny person. Basing your everyday
on science creates loneliness. If you
want to get somewhere in life, you
have to try to be dead. Never stop
being weird. If you need to create friends,
you must become a thief. Recreational
drugs are there to strangle your full
potential. Lie to yourself. Don’t just
act naturally. Imagine that you are
obviously watched. The fact that you
are desperate doesn’t necessarily mean
you’re not self-deceptive. Having
an affair with your yoga instructor
can be fun if you cut your hair. All
you need to end world hunger is some
kind of bomb and an accident. Shut up,
follow your dream and reinvent the wheel.
Villain is just another word for misunderstood.
I like you is just another way of saying
take off your clothes. Passion is boring
to elitists. There is absolutely no reason
not to be erotic. How would the world
look if every human being found a way
To help ghosts? If you need inner peace,
don’t forget to close your eyes. Hate
love. Work more. Be honest. Or don't. 






Tuesday, May 23, 2017

Lady of the Lake














Lady of the Lake

Last summer, I sat by 
a lake in the Muskokas
at a friend’s cottage.
The Lady of the Lake
handed me a sword
for safe-keeping. 
pawned it for six
sadness-free months.
I stare at the sword
in the store’s windows
imagining me leading
an army to victory
against oppressors.
I ride a white horse
named Samson across
a field of dead soldiers.
The sword costs six
months of sadness
which I cannot afford
but already strangers
in the streets stop to 
pledge their allegiance 
to me. “I’m a tyrant,”
I caution. “We know,”
they say. “But at least
you're our tyrant."

By Chris Banks

Sunday, April 30, 2017

Voodoo Doll















Voodoo Doll


The cannibals are out of work. A ruffian tries to 
mug a poem. He comes away with sealed records
unveiling his shadow’s secret files. Don’t go poking
the bear, the rest of us tell him, if you can’t handle
a few symbolic gestures. Pandemonium is a sleep
cathedral. A den of nightmares. Every time I see
a nun, I feel a slap against my palms. A phantom
strap that never cuts, only stings. Oh Sister Claire,
shaking an eight year old boy so hard you would
swear he was a marionette, where are you now?
This is a terrible children’s book. Get ready for
a fireworks display. Isn’t that better? Watch out
for debris. Self-talk is worse than a voodoo doll. 
Exit off the warpath. My biographers want me to
hack the zeitgeist. A geiger counter keeps clicking,
although there are only law firms for miles around.
My hazmat suit is invisible. I begin to worry people
will recognize me as patient zero. Take me to some
underground lab run by faceless operatives who will
conduct experiments on me. You’re not that special,
say the cannibals, who loll in the summer heat, stuffed
with questions which are my particular super-power
but even they sadly, slowly, grow more civilized.

By Chris Banks
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