Grammarly, you're a lifesaver.
Like gum is too bad breath.
Except, don't twist my words to fit your correct phasing.
Heck, I know what I am saying?

In my mind, I created this.
Just to see you trying to make me say that.
Grammarly, leave a little room.

Remember, this is my poem.
Sure I can push the word ignore.
Then I would have to say that be a bore.

I write using it.
But sometimes, it tries to change my words.
Be creative on its own.

Like a prince trying to dethrone his King.
Yes, Grammarly tries to change things.

Except, let me be me.
Through my writing, I can write poetic themes.

Some come quick.
Some would make great songs.
Until Grammarly think I am writing wrong.

We can all go swimming in the plastic sea
with lego man and his family.

Grammarly says lego should be with a capital L
I told Grammarly to go to hell
see
I can spell and my words are my words
except for grammarly and lego but there you go
we can't all be perfect
or
maybe Peter can be
and of course
Lady Penelope
but beware
Parker's a shark in the shallows.

That's it
another load of krap,
oh ****
I shouldn't have said that
now I feel like whatsisname?
you know
that guy in the jewellery game
yeah that's it, Mr
Ratner.

.            a variant of "telepathy"...
or the acute relationship
of a schizophrenic menu
to...
   technological advancements...
invisible bypasses of sight...
lost intestine relativity
of cables...
           man on the moon...
returning...
  to the simple man,
caged...
   epitome, 1990s music...
     some think we're living
in an orwellian reality...
i can't even begin a genesis
of double-think,
without first relying myself
on the simple gesture
of either a roulette,
or a washing machine...
keep it simple,
herr zensor:
stop perplexing me as
if pretending to be
a ******* magician,
dear bureaucrat...
                    you're not Kant...
in the days when
a censor thinks he's
a magician,
and a bureaucrat thinks
he's a "somehow" philosopher?

grammarly?
seriously?
i'm drunk, and i give a ****
about how i ******* avoid
the lynch mob anti dyslexia...
but...
your average grammarly
user... first gave away
their freedom from a king
via auto-correct,
to an a.i.
   and... m'eh...
  m'eh... meritocracy?
  right...
        avoiding that,
is available too?
    smell that?
   smell that pungent scent?
no, no, it's not one of those
fashion houses doing
a take on what
an anorexic's **** looks,
let alone smells like...
     imagine:
an invisible fish...
  ghost's: rats
versus pearl jam's: rats...
counter the former...
you need that creeping
base level
     duet with drums...
like imitation of gnawing...
  sewers, dark future...
    königratte simply said:
shhhhhhh, or "acronym" grand Š...
canadian grunge can do
that to you...
you become...
   sensitive to...
what one could expect to
wrestling with one's shadow,
akin to no god but
to a titan...

- and what was given to them
on a platter...
they deflected...
they needed master a.i.
to correct their grammar...
to correct their spelling...
just when touch-screen
******* of a technology
came, they never, bothered,
to evaluate
the keyboard and a direct
translation onto a pixel /
belzeebub's eye canvas...
it's already demeaning
to have given up my
handwriting...
and if anyone were to read
each and every letter
i used to compose
a print letter with
a yours sincerely
end and signature...
i'd say:
  you signed off on a cipher.

  i mentioned telepathy, didn't i?
try, a simulation of schizophrenic
symptoms in the comments
section...
   schizophrenia "qua" telepathy
simulation,
that's what the pop comment
section in the internet "agora"
looks like...  

grammarly.... how does it work?
algorithm fed dyslexia,
modern hieroglyphs and...
nothing to do with someone
minding an acute sense of spelling
while conveying meaning
while listening to: crowded house,
weather with you.

"complex" this that, and the other...
batallion satan
and timothy looking
squint-eyed at the end of a barrel
of an M16...
  because: when was it ever
an antonym to consider
putting your head into the tip
of a canon, and putting
your head into a lion's gob?

holiday's over, gen X,
oops, i guess...
   when the pop culture hits
the curb...
   you know that there are
only outliers who keep
the already kept momentum alive...
since the everyday grey statistic
of a person,
will continue,
and preserve,
  and crack jokes about
winners,
losers,
  alpha males with a throng
of beta cucks...
     the solitary confined...
the dried-up eggs
of an inhibited female potential...
and the divorce-court
******* and parasites...

right now?
mozart?
    if i were at least 50 years old
at the end of the 20th century...
Sistine chapel and what not:
a kept "reverence"...
but nothing i could relate to,
relating to a song by
crowded house...
   or dinosaur jr....
   or blind melon...
or soul asylum
       (david priner...
seriously...
   he just looks like
paul kossoff in some angles)...

but who's talking?
  i'm 32, i'm the first of the first
youth exposed to the internet...
in the mainstream view,
microsoft chat-rooms...
bypassed myspace...
         when facebook ventured
into the university crowd,
as it spread like a wildfire
via the anti-excuse
for ad-companies:
word of mouth...
        i clocked in on last.fm...
before... the ****-storm
took off...

      i'm bemused...
comment sections of the internet,
i always find people are
confused with regards
to what a 1st person
architecture looks like
to what a 3rd person
architecture looks like,
notably without a d.m. thread...

telepathy?
       so... these people speak
simultaneously
as they type?
     telepathy?
or an avenue in imitating
a schizophrenic symptom
of "hearing voices"?
oh joy...
   until those people never
experience this ancient
bicemeral lineage
of symptoms...
how will they ever know,
made claustrophobic or
egoistic by their own:

**** sodden selves?

  personally? i admire
pontius pilate...
    of all the "characters" in
the new testament,
he's my modus operandi
source of inspiration...
    he's like that tourist,
once upon a time,
in london's trafalgar sq.,
being sold breadcrumbs
by tourist baiters...
  and then...
   the cloud of descending
pigeons...

no... baptism...
baptism does not relieve
one of the "original sin"...
what pontius pilate did
was more than john
the baptist could ever do...
the symbolism
of pontius pilate was always
more to me than
dipping a grown man
into a lake...

   satan? is it really a menacing
word?
  not if you grew up in
catholicism,
and attended a catholic mass,
when the creed is being
murmured...
   there was always,
something, morbid, beautiful,
but at the same time
menacing associated
with, pontius, pilate,
preceeded by the words:
condemned under...

    like the grand disappearing
act of man,
known to the gods:
of the mortal skew in
a momentary parabolla e.g.,
the footprints of but one man
on the shore,
and then, the grand gasp
of the sigma of: that is man,
what is man...
the heaving grip
of the "totalitarian" grand +
of the: to come
(replacement demographics).

- rigid *******...
their only love, expressed,
is hardly punctured
by punctuation marks,
notably, esp., when deviating
from the claustrophobia
of a paragraph narrative...
******* to all
the descriptive language
with, an anti-******
       of the dialogues...
leaving gaping holes,
gashing wounds
for theatre writers...
who... specialiße in dialogues
and in-between
narration of body-language
gesticulation of
a persona non grata,
           thankfully missing.

poetry? simple...
         paint me a picture;
can't paint me a picture
beside the rigidity of
a geometry?
   or a "thinking outside,
the box"?
   n'ah... let's pretend
i have a short-attention span...
or i'm, currently
fashioning myself
in symptoms of narcolepsy;
what then?

   william burroughs
tapped into this potential...
unlike tristan tzara...
he didn't pull out
snippets of newspaper
articles...
from a top-hat,
which was shoved up
the poet's ***
for the sake of the entire
cabaret voltaire outlet
of performance;

no genuine scrutiny on the by-pass,
notably anti-war...
if, war, was, clearly,
unavoidable...
mechanisms of torture...
while the rest of us
started playing an evolved
version of hide & seek...
by playing, art,
or... what's called stalling.

Why would you walk into the lion's den when the lions have yet to be fed?

some things beggar belief, but you can't fill your bellies with belief or so I am led to believe,
some hold out their hands for alms, some hold up their arms in praise,
some hold up banks,

you have to do what or what do you have to do to make it through this obstacle race they call life?
Grammarly tells me I should rewrite that for clarity!!!
as I said
why walk into the lion's den when the lions have yet to be fed.

Ropes and strings often syntax them
hammers and pliers verb hard and soft
words and themes are seasoned by us
to appear nice and sensible

Tools are made with precision
they are strong, need adept handling.
No tool ever drew a picture.
Brain and heart can create a world.

5th July, 2017.

I call myself a poet
Yet I'm not grammarly correct
Taking bad breaks
Rhyming here and there

I call myself a poet
As if poetry has been instilled in me
Like I learned it

I call myself a poet
Who has nothing to say but to
Only express my complex emotions

I call myself a poet
Maybe I'm just some pretentious girl
Trying to be deep  
Knowing that the words I express
Are not me

I call myself a poet
Hoping that one day
Someone else will know it

I call myself a poet
Repetition of these words
So it could be heard
That I call myself a poet

There's the thrift shop and
that's the pop the weasel shop,

this is the high street
a bit down on its luck
and these are the councilors
who don't give a ****.

(Grammarly suggests I put a question mark after ****,
so I did, ****, off Grammarly)

I am wondering when
they'll start building again
or have we run out of bricks?


The economy appears to have had
a hysterectomy and
someone will **** me for this.

There were greater writers
That no one will remember
Sinners singing for their dinner
Tale weavers not award winners

But they were better than some of those
**** famous deadbeat poets
Those dirt dry boring heartless poets
Anthology barn describing
Empty mind driving
Generation after generation
Stale lifeless shells of poets

You missed the raw talented
Death seeking reeking writer
While you were pursuing some tired muse
She was riding through the darkness
Spiting you while inviting you
To partake of the snake that eats itself

The academic was systemic
Of the social sickness
That wants grammarly fitness
Till the point they cut the fruit off
And ate the bark
They plugged in the tv man
But ignored the spark
Lost the heart in pursuing
The same style the old poets were using
Till they changed styles to the new old poets

Meanwhile the cutting edge
Was in back water cities
Bleeding all deep poetry
Feeling everything but pity
And writing it so fast and beautifully

But you never took the time to see
Wrote some stuff that puts us all to sleep
Now we are creeping toward the two thousand and twenties
And I have found those once lost voices
They are rocking the twitter feeds
The facebook pages
The tumblr streams
Welcome to the digital age
Don’t need the old guard
To raise us up
It’s a true poets dreams
Were voices scream dissonantly
But still form a social harmony
They won’t forget me
And I won’t miss out on them

Wednesday
and
what does the Oracle have to say?

nothing
nada
except
things will get badder
before they get better.

then I thought
that I heard someone calling,
but it was me
back to forever falling.

(Grammarly sanctions me
for using
the word badder
and 'quite frankly my dear,
I don't give a ****')

It's always them and us
them are in the limousines
and we're stuck on the bus,
( Grammarly tells me that it
should be
'they are in the limousines' )

dream on Grammarly,

we could be them and them could be us
and then we'd be in the limousines and
they'd be on the bus,

but
that's beyond a fairy tale
where the coffin waits for one more nail
and the last boat for China's waiting to sail,

I bet it will be a slow one.

Snow and Jalapeno
hit them hard but
take it slow,
them things kills you
don't you know?

and Grammarly puts up a flag
makes it **** instead of kills
but
if I've been killed a thousand times
that's a lot of kills,
init Grammarly?

I can hear seagulls
they must be lost
unless like me
they move in a sea
of concrete.

(Grammarly's going into one, add some comma's John,
oh! keep yer knickers on Grammarly it's Sunday and a day of rest)

Sunday?
well
swipe me sideways
with a kipper and
thank God it's nearly over.

The bells have rung
the choir has sung
and someone brung
a bottle to the party,

(Grammarly tells me that brung
is an unknown word,
Grammarly oughta
get up North a
bit more)

Don't think of tomorrow as a Monday,
don't think of tomorrow at all,
that's my advice.

Dear People of the World,
I don't mean to be slutty,
But please use me when ever you want.
Sincerely,
Grammarly.

Okay,
we know it is Friday,
have you got anything planned?

a night out,
a night in,
a night doing nothing,
perhaps trying to begin
a new chapter?

I hear laughter
but it's only me
laughing at this odd
peculiarity
(Grammarly
just corrected me
on the spelling)

I'm still here
enjoying a beer
watching the fireworks.

This week almost killed me
but it did not,
just took a shot at me
and missed,
now it's the weekend
it could be thrills galore,
but whatever it is it has got to
be more
than the previous five days.

This has nothing to do with anything, but
Grammarly is getting right on my ****
underlining bits of text
commenting on what goes where
and what is best
what next?
a chalk duster
flung through the screen at me?

I can roll with the punches
because I'm putting on weight,
well rounded, I'm told,
then again they tell old people
what they want to,
don't you?

My sister creases her eyebrows with a melodramatic pout and BAM my phone unlocks

My brother, with a satirical smirk gleams at its camera and BAM the same outcome

Within one singular moment, they have access to all my inner secrets and privacy hidden behind the locked screen.

And though it just seems like a software error on apples half, the suspenseful irony is louder than the sound of my phones screen hitting the cold hard and textured pavement.

My reflection, nothing more than the people around me.  

If I were to submit my personality of Turn it in, I fear that it would highlight all the words I have spoken, asking for my references. It would clear me of my ideologies and leave a blank page titled ‘what was original’. Grammarly, would suggest better words and underline my lack of structure. Google docs would warn me that my ‘new draft’ is not yet saved with my improper connections and safari would constantly warn me of possible identity theft.

I’m scared if you get close enough you will find that I am a puzzle made of lost pieces. The completion, a tactile experience of misfits, lifted with bent ends, forced together to create an abstract image of everybody else.

The endless hours spent in confusion, the restless eyes searching for a border, only to find that the picture doesn’t reflect the image on the box.
the image that you expected
The image that you desired.

My mirror, smudged with fingerprints of someone else, angled away from my body only reflecting the people I am ought to become.  

I fear that if a mirror could talk, it would expose me of all that, to which I have stolen.

Most of all, I fear that once you unlock the phone, see the puzzle, gaze into my mirror you would find an idiosyncratic reflection that I do not yet recognise.

How do I remember
you, I ask grammarly
between life and death.

You were not very
keen to know,
what I did not say.

What I saw was a
moonshot, restrained by a dig in.

Ultimately I sniffed that,
nobody wins in love.

The bona fides are at stake.
The mob was not a validity,
stranger than real.

Collectively I will gather
the stones to throw on god.

The road warrior was dead.
There was no path.

We all want free time
the me, me, me, time
but
it's my, my, my time
which is funnily enough
time for me time.

( goes around clockwise but none the wiser )

Grammarly tells me to remove an article,
this isn't strip poker though, is it?
but that's
by the by and
something for me and my time.

Not the same

The result is another poem unlike the one
I wrote in my head.
The poem that has another conclusion
this because the inner voice changed my opinion.
I try the Grammarly that informs about passive
the sentence, well it was meant to be passive, worst
of all, it suggests a change of words which is
Ignored I’m not writing a document.
The Grammarly helpful with my lack of commas
I then correct the poem and send it on its way,
but it is not the poem I wrote in bed.

Grandma Grammarly is watching me
she haunts me day and night and
watches everything I do
especially when I write.

Grammarly it hurts.
The pale eyes ****. I clap and ****
the smile. Someone knocks at the door.

Stage was empty. Not
finding any movement. The seminudes
don't want to display cuts and bruises.

Vertigo. My gloves hang.
Wearing a mask, takes away the vibes.
Words sleep on lips. I become dumb.

Grammarly it hurts.
The pale eyes ****. I clap and ****
the smile. Someone knocks at the door.

Stage was empty. Not
finding any movement. The seminudes
don't want to display cuts and bruises.

Vertigo. My gloves hang.
Wearing a mask, takes away the vibes.
Words sleep on lips. I become dumb.

Grammarly you get on my ****
stop shredding my sentences
and taking my paragraphs to bits,

oops, did I write this in colour?

They will all tell you
what they think's for the best,
go for a test
don't go for a test
get vaccinated,
inoculated,

get flucked
( Grammarly tells me no L,
well
it's not a flucking Christmas Carol
is it?)

but we have to do
the right thing
which
may not be the same thing
as
what they all tell you,

has that made it any clearer?