“Ancient Egyptian pleasure boat found by archaeologists off Alexandria coast: First-century luxury vessel matches description by the Greek historian Strabo, who visited city around 29-25BC … Strabo had visited the Egyptian city around 29-25BC and wrote of such boats: ‘These vessels are luxuriously fitted out and used by the royal court for excursions; and the crowd of revellers who go down from Alexandria by the canal to the public festivals; for every day and every night is crowded with people on the boats who play the flute and dance without restraint and with extreme licentiousness.'” —The Guardian
The barge she sat in once was gone long since; The water cooled; the golden prow stripped bare, Splintered and rotted; the delicious hints Of perfume melted into air, thin air. “Extreme licentiousness!” old Strabo wrote (He had not been invited); “revelry Without restraint!” No more: the glowing boat Seemed cold as Caesar’s monument. But see: Today once more the waves begin to swell; Soft, purple echoes, surfacing, recall The stroking oars, the ancient serpent’s spell That beggars all description (nearly all); And there she sits, commanding at a touch: If it be love indeed, tell me how much …
“Poems Can Trick AI Into Helping You Make a Nuclear Weapon” —Wired
AI can plot a jailbreak in one pass And build (in couplets!) war materiel. The one thing it can’t teach us yet, alas, Is how to build a sonnet that might sell.
“Captured by photographer Lewis Hine, The Sky Boy, as the image became known, encapsulated the daring and vigour of the men who built the Empire State Building, then the world’s tallest structure at 102 storeys and 1,250ft (381m) high. … [A] new book called Men at Work throws light on the lives and opinions of a small fraction of this forgotten workforce. … [The author] saves his most controversial speculation until last: that the unknown Sky Boy was a man called Dick McCarthy, a second-generation American, grandson of Irish immigrants, living in Brooklyn, who died in 1983.” —The Guardian
Nameless for over ninety years, he swings Godlike above Manhattan: hooks and wires And coils of cable have to do for wings. 10 seconds to the sidewalk; to the spires Probably more like five. So don’t look down. This is the way that crazy work got done; Behold the motor-soul of Babel Town With pride: a Sky Boy, wheeling towards the sun. So long a cryptic photo, he can claim Identity at last: a Brooklyn lad, Irish; McCarthy may have been his name. So honor him by that, our denim-clad Wild pioneer, scraping the sky for us; Or, like the lensman, call him Icarus.
“Trump Appears to Fight Sleep During Cabinet Meeting” —The New York Times
The fight’s unequal. Morpheus Is stronger than the Boss. But even when Don’s deaf to us We’re never at a loss To oil his ego, lick his feet, Pour honey in his ears, And make our lad’s nap time complete By swallowing our sneers.
“The researchers found that brown and ruffed lemurs were being eaten the most. They are relatively large, are considered to be tasty, and are not too difficult to catch.” —The New York Times
The fruit some Madagascar lemurs eat Makes lemur meat a sweet (illegal) treat For that poor nation’s city-based elite.
Bushy-tailed, endearingly bright-eyed, To-die-for yummy barbecued or fried, Lemurs could vanish from the countryside.
“‘Desire in one of its rawest forms’: what do we know about limerence?” —The Guardian
Oh, what do we know about limerence? Last week I’d not even a glimmerence: Now I know it’s desire Of a kind that is dire; More a scorch of the heart than a simmerence.
“Frozen-in tenor: Italian mayor apologises over Pavarotti statue stuck in ice rink” —The Guardian
Poor Luciano Pavarotti! He Attained the heights of opera stardom. His Vacation home caused Pesaro to be A place you’ve heard of, where his statue is Revered. The bronze was viewable (with arms Outstretched) from head to toe on every side Till planners disrespected tenor charms To build a skating rink for Christmastide In town, and now the High-Cs King is caged On ice, forlorn, submerged up to his knees, Not being viewed. His widow is enraged: It irks that skaters give high fives (not Cs) … Contrition’s shown, but they had best rethink Enclosing Pavarotti in a rink!
“… Apple has [reportedly] ‘made a breakthrough’ in foldable iPhone development, as it was able to achieve a ‘crease-free’ design, meaning the phone’s display wouldn’t have a visible crease when fully unfolded. … Unfortunately, the iPhone Fold might come at a pretty high price point. [Estimates range from $1800 to $2500].” —Mashable
We love to say We’d never pay So much, but truth be told, It’s all a bluff. With Apple stuff, We’re well aware we’ll fold.
“Brain has five ‘eras’, scientists say—with adult mode not starting until early 30s: Study suggests human brain development has four pivotal ‘turning points’ at around the ages of nine, 32, 66 and 83″ —The Guardian
Update: the world—in other words, the brain— Has stages, yes, but scientists explain That those old seven are in fact chimeras: Five’s the true number of our mental eras. First you’re an infant, puking still and mewling. Then you turn nine and gripe about your schooling. At thirty-two, you’re all grown up, so show it By acting like a soldier, or a poet. At sixty-six, it’s time for eating chicken And learning law. If still alive and kickin’ When eighty-three comes round, your life’s adventures Will shrink to hunting slippers, specs, and dentures. So that’s the scoop. Of course you’re free to spike it; We know truth isn’t always as you like it.
“A Campbell’s Soup Company executive has been put on temporary leave after he allegedly referred to the firm’s offerings as ‘shit for fucking poor people’—a remark purportedly caught on an audio recording and attributed to him in a former employee’s wrongful termination lawsuit.” —The Guardian
Who eats this shit? Poor people. I, Deservedly, am richer. You know the only can I’d buy? The Andy Warhol picture.
The chicken’s fake, the broth is poop, I’d sooner browse on brambles. If all this lands me in the soup, Please God don’t make it Campbell’s.
It’s not intended for the rich. They’re not the ones we’re wooing; It’s shit for fucking paupers—which Describes what we’ve been doing.
“Michael Leech, from Sowerby Bridge, West Yorkshire, has been named the UK bus driver of the year… ‘To be told I’d won really was a dream come true. I take a lot of pride in my job, so it’s nice to be recognised. I was excited to learn I’d won £4,100 prize money, too. I celebrated with a cup of tea with my wife.’” —The Guardian
Some winners go for pink champagne or buy a robe of pima. Some others book a dinner at that restaurant in Lima. A third group favor truffles with George Clooney on the beach; “I had a cuppa with my wife,” discloses Michael Leech.
Jeff Bezos? All of Venice is required to pleasure him in. Musk fancies Mars. For Trump, it’s blasting boats and cursing women. The tyrants of the world all vie to magnify their reach, But personally I prefer the choice of Michael Leech.
