And here's what I got when I asked ChatGPT to write a poem about money in the style of J.H. Prynne:
Currency for the Static
Whispers leak through slow hands, folded over
coins older than names—these stretched hours
in the quiet wash of surfaces turning,
the threadbare edge,
insistent.
Numbers breed in compartments under skin,
a slip of ink that lives longer than memory.
You follow the shift in the air
where bodies scatter in metallic breath,
the unspoken glue of green veins,
black veins,
no one speaks of the margin
where value stays without motion,
a waiting stillness that can carry the day.
You grasp it—no,
it pulls through fingers like dust or silk
or the absence of both,
as the gears grind with a velvet ease,
and the check of the hours
still counts by what can’t be held.
Time shudders beneath the weight of change,
reduced, composed.
A map unfolded too late—
not to the edge,
but within it,
hidden behind the print,
where the pulse of surplus rests.
Flourish, faint, in the flicker
of what cannot return,
the door swung wide by an exchange
too deep to see,
too sharp for the blur of
the passing,
counted but never known.
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