Stare for 25 minutes at a blank screen.
Write half a poem and give up.
End up walking down to the bus stop bench,
sit strangely erect, look dead
into the winter sun. Hate itself.
Resent the apparent happiness of others.
Miss its daughter. Go back in time.
Wish it had been a better dad.
Leave church after 15 minutes even though
it needed nothing more than the company
of the faithful. Even though it needed
the Word of assurance, the taste of God’s
blood in its mouth. Drive home cold,
order a pizza. Feed itself. Numb itself.
Shut itself down and dream of love
lost, of a girl refusing to speak,
of all that beauty slipping into ether,
nor can it remember kissing her blue
forehead in a Los Angeles funeral home.
This is interesting. It's certainly evocative, but I'm unsure what to make of the stated connection to AI's capabilities. Is it sarcastic? Longing to be unfeeling like an AI? It's certainly not at...
This is interesting. It's certainly evocative, but I'm unsure what to make of the stated connection to AI's capabilities. Is it sarcastic? Longing to be unfeeling like an AI? It's certainly not at all what I expected when clicking on the title.
Only speaking for myself here. A better analyst than me would spend a lot of time talking about the body of the poem itself, which has nothing to do with AI. Only the title frames the poem as...
Only speaking for myself here.
A better analyst than me would spend a lot of time talking about the body of the poem itself, which has nothing to do with AI. Only the title frames the poem as being "about" AI. But I am a poor analyst, so ...
I take the poem to be a combination of sincerity and irony.
It's sincere, because these are things that AI genuinely cannot do. They are genuinely human things.
It's ironic, because they are mostly depressing things, things that you don't really want to do.
In asking the question "What can't AI do?" the set of "good" answers seems to be shrinking daily. So all that is left are the "bad" answers.
Feels surreal to end up on a page that says “Sorry, that poem is currently unavailable.” For a second, I had this pretentiously profound thought that maybe that was the poem all along.
Feels surreal to end up on a page that says “Sorry, that poem is currently unavailable.”
For a second, I had this pretentiously profound thought that maybe that was the poem all along.
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This is interesting. It's certainly evocative, but I'm unsure what to make of the stated connection to AI's capabilities. Is it sarcastic? Longing to be unfeeling like an AI? It's certainly not at all what I expected when clicking on the title.
Only speaking for myself here.
A better analyst than me would spend a lot of time talking about the body of the poem itself, which has nothing to do with AI. Only the title frames the poem as being "about" AI. But I am a poor analyst, so ...
I take the poem to be a combination of sincerity and irony.
It's sincere, because these are things that AI genuinely cannot do. They are genuinely human things.
It's ironic, because they are mostly depressing things, things that you don't really want to do.
In asking the question "What can't AI do?" the set of "good" answers seems to be shrinking daily. So all that is left are the "bad" answers.
Feels surreal to end up on a page that says “Sorry, that poem is currently unavailable.”
For a second, I had this pretentiously profound thought that maybe that was the poem all along.