Write a poem that drops me to my knees.
Strike me square in the face with a fist of birdsong.
Torture me to orgasm with silk.
Roast garlic to perfection; add rosemary, butter,
and salt.
Dance until the fire alarm goes off.
Stab the canvas with a final stroke of impasto,
the oil thick and glistening like tallow.

AI can, however, render an opinion on the above;
check the usage of impasto; suggest a better
turn of phrase…

And if your temples aren’t throbbing with blood,
if your feet are still planted on cold tile:
take it up with the machine, being sure to pray
the time never comes when, with its endless rows
of mindless servers running hot with all of history’s data,
it takes offense.