This appeared in Angle. Such good taste they had.
I’ve changed the voice commands. The poem starts
When anyone says Artemis or swears
By Zeus's thigh. It finishes when rain
Intervenes, the puddles ex machina
Providing an escape. Between the prompts
Poetry sleeps. Hollering Blood-dimmed tide
As your Camaro races by won't work,
Nor liquid-sifting nightingales atop
A satellite dish. I have allowed for that.
Nor saying Venus when you really mean
The foam-born goddess who made Helen fall
For that blond curly-headed twit, then watched
A local Hector dragged around in dust.
You can't say whale-road, can't pretend that Danes
Are good for more than video games. You must
Burn your own child to smithereens to save
Earth from the sun when what it needs is rain.
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