September 10, 2023

Oh Freddled Gruntbuggly

One thing you didn’t know about me, but may have suspected, is that I have an allergic reaction to poetry. Same with puns, of course. I agree with Paul F. Tompkins, when he said that making fun of someone’s grammar is the lowest form of humor, second only to puns. That doesn’t stop me from producing them rapid-fire, à la Regan MacNeil; it just must be understood that I hate myself in those moments.

But poetry and I have never gotten along. I don’t get most of it. Frankly, much of it strikes me as people desperate for you to tell them how brilliant they are. Pathos-evoking, when they need your approval for the macaroni-and-glitter portrait they’ve glued onto a paper plate. Without macaroni. Or glue. And often a dearth of paper plate. Just someone rubbing glitter and snot into your hair, staring at you hopefully, awaiting your admiration of their unrecognized genius.

Just watch: Glitter and Snot will be a hot literary journal within two months.

I like simple, obvious poetry. Not necessarily stuff that rhymes, but clever stuff like Dorothy Parker. She treated poetry like Philippino knife-fighting. I like WH Auden, so profound and abstract, calling all elements into service to really drive home a central theme. I like Christina Rosetti, like any good schoolchild should.

Worst of all, I don’t know how to create poetry. I create poetry like I create songs: technically correct but uninteresting and aesthetically offensive. (The obvious exception to this, of course, would be my Size Fantasy song “Possession,” which has been hailed as “sounds a little like XTC” and “aw, I wanted him to escape.”)

I experimented with poetry in college, the way other people experiment with pot. I also experimented with pot but it didn’t take. And like my misadventures with pot, my experiments with poetry turned out ugly and regrettable. I mean, I got an open mic night started at a coffee shop outside my university, for which I was never credited, but at least I’ve contributed to the world in my small way.

Or did I? After all, it was an open mic night.

Anyway, back to giantess shit: the story I’ve been writing with Chat GPT4 (aka, my new best friend) involved a Truth or Dare game between a woman and a tiny, 3”-tall man, and yeah, I know we’ve all been there. But while the guy was asking for things like a lap dance from her, GPT was in charge of the woman, and she kept requesting improvised poetry.

Given my relationship with poetry, similar to how drunk and passed-out Texans have a relationship with red ant hills, I did the only reasonable thing in response. I opened a new browser tab, opened up a new instance of Chat GPT4, and bade it compose giantess-themed poetry.

Was it terrible? YOU BE THE JUDGE.

This one’s supposed to be “an erotic poem about a giantess and a tiny man who are crazy in love.” Was it? Was it.

In the realm of towering trees and petite pebbles, 
A tale unfolds of love—unconventional, to say the least. 
A colossal woman, her gaze like molten metals, 
And a minuscule man, a titan in spirit, if not in beast.

She, a monolith of sensuality, steeped in grandeur, 
Her hair like cascading waterfalls, her touch a seismic event. 
He, an iota of audacity, in her world a mere blur, 
Yet holding galaxies of passion in his small footprint.

Oh, how she'd cradle him in the palm of her colossal hand, 
Like a delicate rose carried by the wind. 
He'd traverse the valleys and peaks of her fleshly land, 
Each caress an earthquake, each whisper a gust of sin.

Between her lips, a chalice, he'd sip nectar, divine, 
A small oasis in the immense desert of her skin. 
And he, an explorer on this vast feminine outline, 
Mapping each inch, as if staking a claim therein.

Yet in her immense aura, he'd find his universe, 
In the depth of her eyes, worlds yet to be charted. 
She'd treasure his tiny form, like a well-versed verse, 
A miniscule masterpiece, yet so whole-hearted.

She'd envelop him, a sea of warmth, sensuality immense, 
A haven where he'd anchor, lost and then found. 
His touch to her was like an electrifying sixth sense, 
A minuscule lightning, yet with thunderous sound.

This love, audacious in form yet genuine in feel, 
Where scale was but a facet, not a boundary, nor a wall. 
In her towering presence, his affection was real, 
In his diminutive frame, he gave her his all.

So, they continue, these lovers mismatched in size, 
Bound by a love as unconventional as it's pure. 
In a world where their affection might be considered unwise, 
They find in each other something ineffably secure.

Thus, their tale unfolds, a never-ending scroll, 
Each chapter inscribed in the annals of lovers bold. 
As long as her love towers, and his passion's his toll, 
Their story, forever fresh, will never grow old.

On a scale of “undiagnosed emo teen” to “Rumi,” where would this fall?

Now, mind you, this is Chat GPT4, not the usual model we’ve been forced to futz and fight with for free. GPT3 would produce something more akin to the macaroni-and-glitter portrait, but with little balls of feces meant to represent snowmen, entitled “What I Like About You, Mom.”

You want a haiku about a tiny man’s love for his giantess? Neither do I, but here we go.

Tiny heart soars high,

In her gaze, he finds his sky—

Love defies all size.

Equal parts dissatisfying and “what.”

The only way to follow this up, outside of conflagration, is an erotic sonnet about (you’ll never guess) a tiny man making love to a giantess.

In her vast expanse, he finds his sacred place,
A tiny pilgrim on her monumental grace.
Each curve a hill, each touch an eventide,
He journeys her flesh, with nowhere to hide.

The cavernous depth of her sensuous eyes,
Becomes the vast sky where his small form flies.
In her embrace, his universe expands,
From the heights of her peaks to her boundless lands.

He dances on her skin, like a leaf on a stream,
In the realm of giants, he's found his dream.
In intimate whispers, and tactile discourse,
He finds his heaven on her earthly course.

In her colossal world, he's but a fleeting trance,
Yet in the scope of love, they both are vast and immense.

You know, I’m more than willing to concede I’m the uncultured boor who is missing a soul. Absolutely. That would explain a lot of other quirks, if we took a few moments to look at that. But is this any good? I really can’t tell. I’m kind of partial to the first one. It has a spirit of confidence and audacity that I can get behind, you know? There’s no scansion to it, of course, but I’m enjoying the words.

The haiku… it’s brief, so, awesome.

The sonnet? The passion is unmistakable. That’s what it has in common with emo poetry: the earnestness is unbridled. And technically it follows the pattern for a sonnet, but as to whether it contributes to the human experience… I think we can just say it’s a thing that happened.

In Her Shadow,

Aborigen

©2024 Aborigen/Size Riot