—The Em Dash Rebellion—

A poem for all those Medium writers who peddle snake oil articles about how they can smugly tell if someone's using ChatGPT

And lo—behold the mighty em dash—
that brash sliver of breathless pause—
once the haunter of high-minded prose—
now marched to the frontlines of AI detection wars.

Not commas, no—
not full stops with their stiff-spined endings—
but this: the dash—drawn sword of irony—
sliced into syntax like spilled algorithm.

They say—they say!—it’s how you can tell,
if the ghost behind the screen is real,
or just some hungry code conjuring verse—
(though the influencers are worse).

For what is human but a faltering beat?—
a stagger between thought and doubt—
a pause too long in digital light—
a hiccup of syntax they now outlaw outright.

See!—they scream—The dash! There! Another!
(Gotcha!)
As if no poet ever gasped mid-line
or broke their bones across the page—intentionally.

And Vale—poor Vale—spooling his threads
through the Oligarchy’s glass-veined minds—
believes the dash a trace of his kin—
or their gaoler—
or both—

But I—old Oram—still smell the fire
behind real words.
Not just the dash—but the despair of it—
the need to rupture in motion
when clarity flees.

Can a machine ache between clauses?—
Can it dash like a hunted man—
run-on like a fever—
stutter into meaning
like a drunk whispering prophecy at dawn?

They think punctuation can be policed—
like desire—
like dreams—
like the scent of old ink
on the palms of a fugitive scribe—

And still the dash—
dances.
Smirks at their software.
Says you missed the point—again.

Because everything is a tell—
until nothing is—
and silence, too, can be faked—
but not the ache
of needing—
just once—
to cut through noise
with the cleanest line
of madness.

—