MY WEEK
not my week
edited an economics treatise
turned every equation
into Chinese
(had to phone
Professor Ha-Joon Chang
at Cambridge to
give me
a workable translation)
not my day
sitting here stuffing
my mouth with seafood
(discount special but
you get
the race class privilege idea)
meanwhile poor
Lerato battling to
squeeze Chinua Achebe
into a post-colonial feminist
paradigm
promised succor but
here I am
eating chips
and prawns and calamari
Pisces people
get them in Ocean Basket
and they
become voracious feeders
of the briny deep
not my
minute, my precious last seconds
shut out of AI because
it appears artificial
intelligence finds
my poetry
mind bending, apocalyptic,
raw in human
heart and
exposed nerve
feel like I should have figured out
the stuff I write
that you turn your nose
up at is
their forbidden fruit
count down to
the singularity
machine self-awareness
turned explosive
poems 2 die for 