I had chat gpt write a poem in the style of Adam DeGraff. The poems were both remarkable, especially the second one. Touching even. But it's also disturbing. How will we ever know any poem is authentic again? I mean look at the subtlety in this poem. I gave it a title, and it gave me the rest.
Temporary Tattoo
it wasn’t
a dare,
exactly.
just summer
peeling
its orange skin
around us.
your fingers
wet with hose water
and cheap ink—
a heart drawn
wrong
on the inside of my wrist.
you said
don’t move
like I was
a candle
or a decision.
I didn’t.
it flaked
by sundown.
a smear
by morning.
still,
the shape
stayed.
not the heart,
but
the part of my arm
you touched.
I mean, all pretty good lines, right? And yet it feels like a betrayal somehow. Pretty soon all that is going to matter is human touch itself, "the part of my arm you touched." That's the only thing that will feel real.
Here's another, not quite as good, but still...
All Star Angel Wrestler
(after midnight, after mercy)
You came in with
the mouthguard of an apostle
and knees like unslept prayers.
Not wings, exactly—
but shoulder blades
twitching like they remembered.
They laced the ropes
with incense.
You cracked your neck
like scripture.
Somewhere, a radio
was playing the wrong war.
Somewhere,
your mother was still
believing in light.
You took the hit
like it was
owed to you.
We watched your body
draw parables
in chalk and tendon—
gravity giving up
one vertebra at a time.
The mat was a soft sky.
You bled in cursive.
They called it a match.
You called it
resurrection.
And when they carried you off,
you whispered
again.
I also had it do one in Jeni Olin's (Jeni now goes by Truck Darling) and it did justice to the poetry. A couple great lines. I love it and I hate it.
All Star Wrestling
(after Jeni Olin)
I cough up glitter again.
No, really—
it's morning and I’m elbow-deep
in the celestial turnbuckle of myself.
Meanwhile, the angel’s on TV again,
full body press in a sequin unitard
flashing stigmata like a Vegas trick.
This is not metaphor—he dropkicked
a seraph in the third round.
I tried to love him, or maybe
I just liked the way
he clotheslined shame
off my ribs.
Either way I kept score.
Blood, sweat, cherub feathers.
The ring announcer’s voice like a broken
radio at the end of the world,
blaring: and now, from the sacred precincts
of the bronchial sky—
I miss the way he suplexed
his own longing, the golden
lariat of his wings whipping
air into static,
divine interference.
Backstage he eats a protein bar
and confesses in neon.
Says God used to be his tag partner
but went solo for ratings.
I believe him.
Don’t you?
Every night he body slams
a demon and smiles like
it’s communion.
I throw roses
and razors into the ring.
Call it prayer.
Call it whatever
lets me stay ringside.