Sweet Riot by Haley Hodges

the way bae calls me Icarus when I get mouthy

Sweet Riot

by Haley Hodges

My beloved generation 
when there are no dms left 
to slide into, where will we go?
Lmao—the hour is late and the light
is passing.

The V of geese in the noontide sky
is on its way to something good
I'm sure of it. Tell me boo, are you 
on your way? I'm here to put clover 
in your Roth IRA. I'm here 
because the line of your jaw is set 
for me like a trap, the leaping lynx 
in the bio.

They haven't made a GIF for this,
the way bae calls me Icarus
when I get mouthy. Behold, each
feature—eyes, nose, hair, ears—
slowly disappears, my open mouth 
alone lingers to sing a while 
before it's taken by the sun. 

Lo, the hour is nigh, my chariot must run 
its sweet riot, bro: I'm for the sky. 

O my people, hear! I'll soon be ash
and bone. Good news, come near: 
one enchanted sword wedged deep in AI's 
heart of stone demands a human hand. 

Tug it, hidden king—this withdrawing 
might save everything. Freak what you heard
RE the demerits of pulling out.
Godspeed! Take heed— 

wretched are the labor pains 
of the artist who never gives birth;

shall ChatGPT inherit the earth?

This poem is in response to “As AI advances, doomers warn the superintelligence apocalypse is nigh,” September 24, 2025. NPR.

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