Somewhere about there’s a slithering sound of man’s enmity,
causing excitement and casting the seeds of calamity,
claiming enlightened revision of old postmodernity.
Oh! But the thought is as novel as man in eternity.

Lewis and Ransom have shown us to view the transhumanists
in the same light as Mark Studdock and Feverstone’s futurists:
some are as wholly committed as Babylon’s atheists;
others are following blindly the lure of these dataists.

Tempted to self-exultation, they’re striving for deity;
how can this hideous fate be the talk of society?
Dreams that dilute all the values and truth of humanity,
genuine glory exchanged for a dead singularity.

Forgive me, Dactyl

(see Pentadactyl)

Thinking again about dactyls and how they don’t tolerate
stress out of place or the sneaky insertion of syllables,
gladly and humbly I wonder, perhaps I should moderate
poetry calling them dinosaurs, bigots and imbeciles.

P’raps we should think of a dactyl as champion of chastity,
raising the banner of vehement structural sanctity,
hating the sin of iambic compulsion of poetry,
leading the poet in pathways of diligent purity.



dactyl (/ˈdæktɪl/Greekδάκτυλοςdáktylos, “finger”) is a foot in poetic meter…. In accentual verse… it is a stressed syllable followed by two unstressed syllables (SOURCE)