The bots
Read my 
Mind
Any kind
Of my cry
Fits slots

Into which
They sell
Some ad
Make me glad
But I’ll tell
Them switch

Leave me 
Alone
Don’t sell
Me a spell
Thick as stone
Lacking dream

Let me
Escape meaning
And die
Into a sky
Dreaming 
To become free

Do composers
Have accents
They have no words
Nor dictionary
Meanings
But listeners
Understand
Each sound
They echo
From inside their
Souls
Yes they understand
The composer
In the place
Where language
Is a mistake
But provenance
Is stylishly fluent

LL associates music with smells

Noam nor Sigmund

Wrote that smells

Joined humans

Through language

Or sexuality

What were

Those two

Geniuses

Brewing up

Adding rich sense

To necessary stench?

Stupid fruit fly
Invade my breath
Die tasteless death

The robots
Love me
Have the hots
For when I flee

The ink
On paper
Stink
They prefer

The AI
Universe
Where I
Converse

With every bot
Whose nose
Runs data snot
Knowledge grows

With no 
Smell
But I’m slow
They know well

I’m grateful
For all of AI
Whose synthetic stool
Biologists deny

Long in the tooth
Truth poses
For a corpse

Peering at you
We become equals
When we lose sight

The deep structure
Of birds
Is not protolanguage
It is pre reality

Humans
Write
Songs
Birds

Are never wrong
They chirp
About
What belongs

To a 
Prebiotic
Reality
Sympathetic  

Deistic
Where words
Are majestic
Swords

What could
Have been a bird
Hopping in 
The grass
Was a leaf
Light as a bird 
Born to soar
Through the wind
Without avian
Self direction
Instead
Powers so great
Allowed the man
Viewing this
To create
A mistaken
Bit of lore

A stick in the mud
Could halt a flood
If its wood
Withstood
The trick of time
By grabbing slime
Make of it glue
But who knew
This story
Bereft of glory
Became a rhyme
Lost in time
And with it
This silly bit
Of mud
Was a dud