AI Oranges

On vivid blue
Burning beautifully
Three oranges.

AI prints the picture
On a printer in a shop,
To put it in the window.

Is art being made by a machine?
Or is this only half of art?

What does artificial intelligence create?
Is it a trendy special effect?
But is it a subject, though?

Does it feel? Think? Come to know?
That question won't save us anymore.

Now the world is ruled, in full swing,
By His Majesty the Algorithm.

It'll tell you what to buy.
What to wear. Whom to forgive.
What to read. And where to stroll.
And what to moisturize your skin with.

AI generates content.
Doesn't drink absinthe.
Ready. At any moment.

While it's on the server — no problem.
It'll change. Your mentality.
All that matters is the internet works.

It'll find what went missing in your online cart.
Will sum up, from "Glory of the Goddess",
The disobedience of Astini.
Long texts are beyond us now.

Do you remember how those oranges smelled?
The real ones. Three oranges.
But can paintings have a smell?
They can. If they were suffered into being.
By the painter. With paints. With a long brush.
Oil painting — an ancient craft.

They smell of hope. Of passion. Of dreams.
Of sorrow. And of a living soul.

That's what living paintings are.
And there can be no middle ground here.

From half-art —
Emptiness.

A human has pain.
A program has zero.

No feelings. Lived through.
No thoughts. Poisonous.

A neural network doesn't breathe.
Doesn't ache. Doesn't hear.

On vivid blue
Burning beautifully
AI oranges.
Unbearable.