‘Pull yourself together,’ Messalina said to Henri Delacourt, as they sat in the Limehouse Water Bar. The ancient poet in the tatty blue corduroy jacket stared down into his vodka club soda. She could only see bushy grey brows where eyes should be. So irritating, she thought; if you’re going to ask my opinion at least have the courtesy to look at me. He looks like an elderly dog catching its reflection in a puddle and trying to solve the never-ending mystery of the mirror image.
‘I only said that we don’t need human artists now that computers can produce all the content we need.’ She absently clicked her long fuchsia nails. Henri flinched. Messalina shrugged. ‘I repost artificially created motivational phrases all the time on Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr – you know? People give me bundles of likes. There’s this great artificial poet called Ibid and…’Continue reading “In The Same Place – Matt Hobbs”