Issue Three

Spring 2012


T.S. Eliot Takes the Turing Test

How close to sense his responses are,
almost lucid, almost clear,
almost what the judges want to hear.
How quick the switch from hanging men
to Shakespeare quotes and dogs again,
dogs that are the friends of men,
dogs that dig the corpses up, then on
to chess and games of cards.
We’ll pin him down (it could be hard).

His mind moves to and fro,
through April, mountains, Marie and snow.

A babble bot is all he is,
a cocktail shaker filled with words,
a blend of English, German, French,
a mix of quotes and little sense.
He starts off well, begins to juggle
many thoughts until he struggles
and then lets go his grip,
Twit twit twit
jug jug jug jug jug

His mind ranges left and right
through pubs and typists late at night.

A mountain stream that bubbles forth
with words from all the works of men
that gathered here from street and wharf,
from bars and books, from Lil and Ben.
A trick of language, sleight of tongue,
the flash that takes the eye away
and hides the swiftly passing bung.
A mind that simply cannot stay
upon the topic that we choose.

This is a bot,
    you lose,
        you lose.




Ben Johnson