Dignitas – A Bad Day is still better than a Sad Day (012)

Table of Content:

• [012.1] Dignitas
• [012.2] Silence
• [012.3] Esmara
• [012.4] Esmara II
• [012.5] Esmara III
• [012.6] They Feed the Machines

I. Dignitas / Dignitas (012.1)

Dignitas

It’s been a brutal brawling Easter.
Morning hails a hellhound force.
I stagger from bedroom to bathroom.
Life should’ve taken a different course.

After ending a bottle of whisky.
I should never’ve started with Gin.
Recall the sad look of Laphroaigh,
after tossing my darling in a bin.

My head is aching and pounding,
stomach tastes even more upset.
No eggs, no sausages, no bacon,
open Ladbrokes to wager a bet.

The room smells rather chaotic,
stench of puke and rotating light.
I grin at myself in the mirror,
at least I put my pants on right.

Mako The Poet

II. Dignitas / Silence (012.2)

Silence

When I was a startling young bud,
and my penis seemed only to pee.
Never did I dream of a career,
or someone else I needed to be.

I did not dream of race cars,
never imagined flying a plane.
I wondered about “Mein Kampf”,
and what had driven him insane.

Girls would write me silly notes,
eager to bless me with attention.
Although shy, I was funny and lively,
the elder girls would often mention.

Then this horrible acne emerged,
suddenly I felt this soaring shame.
Human contact made me awkward,
almost all my dreams seemed slain.

My body felt like my enemy.
My face a butcher’s serenade.
Pretty girls mean and derogatory,
I just couldn’t get myself laid.

This lasted until one summer.
Mad muscles replaced most pimples.
The girls returned in droves,
my cheeks regained their dimples.

‘What if that summer had never come?‘
‘Could I’ve survived feeling all alone?‘
I wonder about suffering in silence,
as my body makes your body moan.

Mako The Poet

III. Dignitas / Esmara (012.3)

Esmara

You wear skintight booty shorts,
I can read your proclivity in full.
I don’t mean the largess of your lips,
but the tenure that excites a bull.

“Father, will be pleased to see me,”
she proclaims with an innocent smile.
Wonder about her sanguine priest,
if I should follow him around for a while.

“Honey, your ass looks fat…”
I try to convince her to change.
Esmara assesses her sassy look,
like a sniper estimates his range.

Mako The Poet

IV. Dignitas / Esmara II (012.4)

Esmara II

You suck my penis gently,
while I read the morning paper.
I mention buying a Bentley,
you appear from under the draper.

“A Bentley?” you exclaim surprised,
“but you’re a poor lousy poet!“
She resumes sucking my penis.
‘Oh God, don’t I know it…’

Mako The Poet

V. Dignitas / Esmara III (012.5)

Esmara III

I’m worried about your mother,
she’s huge and lavishes her mind.
A heartily Samaritan to beggars,
even those she knows are not blind.

Your mother is twenty years older.
Demanding in appearance and sound.
Her eyes, her smiles, her hands,
every part of her moves around.

Your father a fiery character,
unforgiving to the point of a zealot.
His existence as a local butcher,
reminds me of the fate of a helot.

When we sit down at your family table,
it may appear an incommodious show.
but whenever I feel uncomfortable,
I bask in your warm loving glow.

Mako The Poet

VI. Dignitas / They Feed the Machines (012.6)

They Feed The Machines

An unexpected neon exuberance,
bedevils the dim railway station.
Caesar’s haul of Tigurini at Saone,
honors Rome’s prodigious creation.

When I enter onto the platform,
I bounce a happy hungry fret.
After weeks of empty mechanics,
the machines have finally been fed.

Mars, Bounty, Cadbury.
Crisps, sandwiches, candy.
I search my pockets for coinage.
Change rarely appeared this dandy.

“It never used to be like this…”
The coffee-cart steward proclaims.
And I know he’s about to spoil,
the second best thing after dames.

While I send a tum-tum to my tummy.
He starts about shipyards and coal.
When men were strong and fearless,
war and conquest their sacred goal.

Guzzle my chest full of cold Coke,
sermon burps summon sullen thought.
‘Did the machines destroy our soul?’
“Has the Internet left us naught?’

I make love to my bag of crisps,
I’m addicted to bacon flavor.
Observe this Iphone junkie,
whose clothing signals raver.

‘What do we feed the machines…‘
‘When it doesn’t concern packaged food?’
‘Are we turning ourselves into bacon?‘
To be chewed by machines that would.

‘Are we surrendering ourselves to AI?‘
The way pigs meet a farmer’s truck.
Is it me who controls the machines,
or am I a piglet straight out of luck?

I order me a sinew of coffee,
he points to the cardboard price.
I draw my wallet mechanically,
to hand him his part of the slice.

“You still don’t get it, do you?“
“They feed the machines our data…”
He turns his back towards me,
“maybe I’ll catch ya lata.”

Confused, I watch him leave.
Alarmed by what he just said.
‘Are machines becoming our master?‘
‘Will autonomous gods have us bled?‘

Mako The Poet

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