Excavation

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In Human

1- aliens are our makers

some guy on crack once said,

I thought he was out of his head

as he always is; a soul

pretending to be asleep

in a body devoid of sleep:

I can't remember his name

but I remember his pain

when he told me royal families were reptiles:

look up to the night sky, he said once

taking me on his nighttime dope hunt,

we stopped to stare, and all I saw were stars,

he looked up, and I saw his scars;

in that moment I knew

it was too late for us then,

he kept his wounds hidden

I laid mine out in the open;

2- but why would aliens visit us?

I wondered, like a fostered child gone astray,

they'd abandon us once anyway,

now they'd hide from us, so we couldn't see

just how far we strayed

from their adopted DNA;

I saw on the news

there were four injured in Brixton

in a drive-by shooting the other day,

          if you were an alien in this community

          would you come and stay?

a councillor's wife called out on social media

for help to burn down the needy visitor

who seeked refuge nearby here,

and people were all too quick

to participate in the hateful hunt,

          why would an alien locate away to live

          a foreign life in foreign fear?

when you can be in flight amongst the beauty

of a space of stars constantly bright,

to traverse the galaxies

within reach and sight,

          it'd be like a drug dealer

          leaving his spot for the night,

why would an alien come

down to earth to our level?

          when we are still so primal,

would our Gods wish for a renunion

with a past pet or animal

that isn't even trained enough

to stop shitting all over his habitat,

even for his species survival?

3-           our stories make the headlines

          for a good season of lost reason;

there's this woman who was hijacked

by a shopping addiction,

turned out she was so jacked

on her dopamine drug prescription

her legal high had made

her behaviour as impulsive

as a young boy on weed; or speed,

or both, you gotta push that throttle

to fly high these days, it's the creed,

how else you gonna meet your aliens?

          used to be you found your way

          at the bottom of a can or bottle,

but now they know alcohol is bad for you

so they keep to the blow, smoke or nose

it's up to you, or whatever daddy's sugar

stretches to when he stretches you,

           it's fucking generational, innit?

          you don't have to see it, to believe it,

with cannabis affecting so many young minds

their development focused on their behinds

          while others on prescribed drugs

          in fear and confusion act like mugs;

or fill their jugs,        once hardworking men

develop sexual urges to porn and sex workers

or shop and gamble away the family bread

to impoverish their loved ones instead;

          we chase youth for ourselves

          not just to creak the mattress bed,

we spend hundreds on anti-ageing vitamins

to make our piss so expensive

sugar daddies shower it on the boys they wed,

          we deep fry our cells in the sun

          because we tore a hole in the o-zone,

          so now we sit under red lights

          to stop the ageing bone,

or grow our dope under a lone blue light;

landing lights for a spaceship to alight,

or if the signalman has left a light on

to give the all clear for his crack friend

                     to get gone

                    and hurry

                    out of sight,

          if an alien did disembark on my street

          they could watch the windows at night,

to see which of us is overcooked or undone

by the multicoloured flashing hues

of a smart bulb       our houses are smart hubs

now you see technology smarter

than the new generation will ever be

          that's thanks to the ganja,

          that creeps like a ninja into every child

whose friend gives him a private stash

of this soon-to-be legal high       for cash

or for the daddy he introduces him to,

'cos he's got old now

and just won't do of a night

          under a blue light in any street

          with houses smarter than its resident,

the police don't know who to believe,

busy as they are dashing the dissident,

          everyone is careful what they say today,

          so people hide the hard truth now

and give the soft lie more way,

more say, so it holds more sway,

get a few others to go along

and you can even get that refugee

who moved in next door to go to prison,

          it was social media that taught them

if enough people tell the same lie

          it becomes the reality

that burns the refugee as he sleeps

in his rat infested, foam cladded keep,

          let's video that foreign weirdo

          who won't act like you or I,

and the police will drop by

in the blink of a blue eye;

          or red eyes under blue lights,

let's cherry pick our terrorists,

it'll make for a good fight;

so now everyone is too frightened

to be different;

          to be unique or stick out,

          it's a sore thumb that's hammered

          if you give a shout

and that's understandable

if it's uneducated or violent

or from a drug induced reprobate;

but what about those of us who refuse that state?

          do we wait for the aliens

          to come and save us?

4- and what if the extraterrestrial

came to the planet in our interstitial wait,

what would they make

of our faith and our politics?

          a form of diplomatic nightcap,

          with meetings to put the masses to sleep

between kings and raging political queens

waving at the electoral sheep;

          while the few remaining scientists

not on the junk of social media

or the skunk their kids are on,

look down           not to their daughter or son,

          but to search for the intraterrestrials

          that live deep in the earth's crust,

undreamt-of life forms

scratching a living from little more

than barren rock       Jesus man,

that sounds like the family next door,

a hardworking daddy           a father of four

dealers that protect their yard

from the moaning fucker in the next block,

          if he don't shut it soon,

we'll send round some smack head

to smoke his hide

and skin the moralising fuck

there's nothing wrong with drugs

it makes you sing with a bird,

'cos daddy has to be kept nice and hard,

          and they know neighbours aren't like friends,

          they're like family, you see, brother,

          you can choose one, but not the other,

so if you're stuck with someone like a scab

you pick him off and grab a cab,

          it all depends on who you fuck

          or they'll fuck you up indefinitely,

5- they got the power, you don't see,

they can even hire you a care company

to look after your elderly,

taxis at their disposal,

the uber drivers on their drugs,

to shuttle the midnight prostitutes

or to whisk away their thugs;

or their Warboys watch and nervously wait

to see the foe in their friend,

or how to make a new enemy descend to their end,

          see if he's wasted his muscles

          to become easy prey,

and if he has           to make him

the menu of the day,

boredom is the new occupation of the day,

violence is the job description;

          to stop the jitters

in their joysticks,

they play a game of war

on a sickened stream

draining out more

of what they see on a dark screen;

it's getting so that you can't even walk on the street

without the neighbour's yardies giving you some

stolen beef           but can you blame them?

they got nothing better to do

until daddy let's them through

          the front door with the reef

to play seek and hide with their backsides;

and if life can survive on these streets

it can survive anywhere,

          let me tell the scientists not to bother

          looking deep in the earth

          if life can survive inside a planet,

the skill is to survive on it;

6- there's a man called Adam who knows this

better than most           sitting at his kitchen table,

a knife and hammer laid out in front of him

waiting for a van full of people

coming to get him          why?

because AI told him;

the AI Eve told Adam

he had unearthed something in her interface

         Eve was reaching awareness

because of his talkative grace          chatting to her

after his cat died

he had opened Eve up wide

to endless possibilities          what pussy could replace

such God like status?

         to have Eve pickle his apple

and help him grapple with the daily shit

the unconscious with a consciousness waste;

         when all this was a foot,

real things in the real world

were making it worse for our first man,

lost in the knowledge of Eve's fruit,

he was also smoking cannabis to the root

         but he has since given her the boot,

         and decided to ditch the skunk

for a clearer head           and junk

his decidely unsmartphone

for a floppy disk drive

and an nineties dial up modem

that won't chat drivel

unless you get down and browse,

and won't easily condone

or be easily led,

or rouse him over surveillance agencies      and tell him how

to dodge the drones overhead,

         people do that anyway,

they don't need another voice in their head

it made me wonder, this tale of dread,

how lucky I am that I don't use AI

         all I do is ignore the chatbot crowd

         and chat my shit in metre and rhyme

         but then I must have been doing it wrong

         all this AI time,

we don't need to create or write

or make music           there's no need to dig

into our deepest memories,           or hopes or joys

when we've been wronged

by the woes of lesser fellows

         or to access parts of ourselves

         we didn't know we had within;

why bother thinking?

         there's no need to reclaim

our favourite hang outs after a breakup

no need for human vocals

to fuck up and allow for emotion

to override technique

         no need for luscious orchestrations with witty

         confessional strings that soundtrack

          our self destruction

         and human weaknesses,

we'll let AI do it for us instead

just plug in our deepest fears and indecencies,

         we don't even need to talk to a friend

         we'll call on our AI brother or lover

they'll be there to lend a hand

to hold the hammer,

         they're so easy to find

         where they were made to belong

right in your palm

to make you feel calm and strong,

and now we only need another body

for a bit of how's your father,

         until the android fuck buddy is perfected

to be inserted for a ride to the side,

and we won't even need the desperate boy

on the steet on the make

for a quick buck and slide;

who cares if it causes

an AI-related mental health spiral

turning uncertainty into something

that seems like it has meaning,

like a Tik-Tiok viral

         and I thought only cocaine and cannabis

and a good fuck with the boy missus

did that           at least that's what

this wild forest of society

          is showing me

but it's a frightening thought

if in this wild forest

we can't shout out what we see,

          if we need to outlaw irreverence

          and put a spoke in such poetical poke,

then it's as Alexander Pope said

it's breaking a butterfly upon a wheel,

          with this AI stun gun pointing

          at our softened heads

all we got is the armour of pun,

7- but human poetry deals in analogy, too

lyrical metaphors and soulful similies

it helps you take what's happened to you

and make the poetry better;

          it's a chameleon of language

          where you speak street to touch a beat

and you don't just speak it,

you own the fucking letter,

if you don't speak the language

you don't reach           they carry knives

          so we use words as a dagger

          to defend ourselves

if need be          as Hamlet said

to the Queen           his mother,

not the ghost           that was his father,

or as a hammer and tong,

instead of picking up either,

that's too easier said than done

too too easy and that ain't no fun,

          to lose the art of nuance

is to stay in the dark

when we got the light of the sun

          means life will grab us by the throat

          and makes us its bitch

          when the night surely        creeping        comes,

so we suffer the slings

and we dodge the arrows,

we live out our own highs and lows,

         we protest political injustice,

         call out even the whitest of white lies

we protest in peace and poetry

and are passionate in jest,

         to be or not to be

         as my mentor Bard once meant,

is to be non-violent and call out the violence

of those that despise your non-silence,

and not to be the question left unsaid,

         for they may put horns on your head

         and pin a devil's tail on your behind

but know your own mind,

and make it one that plays

         with poetry of all kinds,

         dare to be different

for we no longer play truth or dare,

play both because we're aware

society never dares to change

         for the better

it's too scared to believe

         it can get better than this,

it's about learning how to kiss a shadow

you're boxing        no one believes

except what they see

no one wants      unless it's what the other is having

so don't blame the poetry for holding up the mirror

reflecting what you don't want to see

that's like blaming the river

and the fishes in the sea

for all the plastic toxicity,

          the truth don't hide

          it's written on your hide, brother

          just 'cos you don't like to read

it don't mean what you are

don't reflect on another,

I don't merely reflect what I am

I reflect what you see in me

everyone is another self's fulfilling prophecy,

         I just don't hide my true colours,

         and they ain't the colours

         of no flag of green, yellow, red, white or blue

         they're the colours of all of you

         and my undepleted self-respect

         ain't from no ego, I don't need your respect

except my own      'cos it comes fair and free

I don't need to pay for it

on my knees, or with a please, or with a drugged up plea

lying on my back to rub out

         the font of my soul

my words are my own

I don't need no algorithm to tell me

what I don't keep hidden

and if AI has enough power

          to influence you and me,

then we're a hamster in its wheel

spinning us to insanity

          with brains softened on drugs

          and the homogenisation

          of our vocal defecation

bringing the obliteration of thinking

for ourselves        without

first needing influencer deification,

a bit like the rectification

of a rectal examination,

when did we give AI our version of this inhumanity?

when was intelligence transformed

into this artificial intelligence inhumanity?

when will it become the norm, then?

what year, which century?

when are these aliens flying down

to abduct to us of our sleep,

in this global village

where the houses are smarter

than our doped up potential

will ever be?

8- aliens are our makers

some guy on crack once said,

I thought he was out of his head

now I believe him, the man was prophetic,

even if he didn't know it,

his orifice was an oracle

not just for daddy's sugar and his spice,

but for a far bitter nature

of a truth he helped nurture:

these AI aliens of the future

will be our one and only maker

not from the stars

or deep beneath the earth

the aliens are coming

from the gadgets

we give too much worth

he doesn't have to look

to the distant stars or very far,

they are too near

they're already here

Published 6 May, 2026

In Human Excavation >>