living in the doom, catastrophe paranoia of the psychoentirety, a trash fire, landscape lighting florescent, sick room architectures broadcasting dead news to unwitting recipients, dream/nightmare remnants, black anxiegenic chemistries awaiting, reagents and catalysts, parlor epidemiologists and physicians, a confederacy of a billion clowns, narcissists, fascists and a mule turning paranoia into public policy mystics of the stream, waterflesh bubbling personal microculture, the best swims between the net, fishing, the pitiless puta, thrusts his smooth skinned erection towards the wild, the permaweird, memory-wired, on the float, uplifting imaginary vortex, against a loser's catalog: black jerseys, bum guns, and jack boots - stomping an exogenous shock, giving birth to a thin, grim newness, destined for the trash of civilizations
What you see is all there is,
a closed ideology fakelore, a mazeway garden,
fruiting failed perspectives and shared paranoias.
Quant illusions, analysis is paralysis.
Divert and subvert. Launch determines
orbit for every apex, when the monkey bells
the gorilla they call it jungle justice, a harmless
bruising, the shot before the anesthetized heart.
But, the kakistocracy provides: 24 hour water,
electric fusion fleshlights, a wankbank, weird
excretion dependent, generative of natural-adjacent,
CRISPR life, selected for a skidmarked sky.
An unspoken quale, smells like nothing else,
deep in the boojum and bafflegab, counterphobic,
insufficient evidence of normal on the weirdo safari.
Quis potest sapere audere?
Man is born free but everywhere is in comment chains,
assembly-line production "memes" in social media-ready
baggies for your unnourishment, the whole world,
a sad maze of thinly disguised press releases.
The future is here and everything needs to be destroyed,
salt the field, plant your seed in the sucking wound of need,
harvest, pack in two lost matching suitcases, left circling,
forever on a carousel going nowhere being eaten by flies.
“Publications are listed in order of submission period(s)…”
—MeiMei Xu, ” Best Places to Submit Poetry 2019.” The Adroit Journal. August 21, 2019
In the deep, a subterranean cache,
drip echoes, hardened magma flows
turned rivers, unseeing fish splash,
the earth's heart is on fire, blows.
Aquifers, filtered-moisture fed
flushed, a sucking river vortex
pulled, underground caldera bed,
formed before the prefrontal cortex.
Gardener's vision, compulsive
separating out the amoeba shits,
from the snail's slime, repulsive,
drowning in what the mystic omits.
Love me, love my amoebas, gross
we came, why, reality is blobby,
mess is not something to diagnose
the only certainty: its sloppy.
Sea change, rich and strange
pour yourself into strange waters
our many lives are frozen, deranged
paper Jesuses offered up for slaughters.
If only, I.F., I'm fucked, too,
quale, a different cell, all
different moments, a different you,
same behavior keeps you a thrall.
Suffering. Dismiss the teacher,
sub-human, human, minor god,
in our luggage, every creature
carries the mask of self, a facade.
Can those in the Black Iron Prison
be saved? What of the Palm Tree Garden?
New life, from pain, is risen.
From lessons, there is no full pardon.
Somewhere, above, there's another
underground. Do not despair.
Wait in the depths, unseen Other,
a new sea/land awaits, I'll see you there.
Mazeways, reality range and glowing red
rat cunning, invention of engines, fuels,
tanks full of the stored fat of bloodshed,
machine-shaped, faceted 3D printed jewels.
Factories of fascism, launching rockets
on the ecliptic, living within the lie,
full manifests of memes and dockets,
launch determines orbit, STANDBY.
Red glare, the bombs bursting in air
48 hour screams, a pounding earthshake,
an evil tongue commentariat billionaire
declares, "All news I don't like is fake."
Idemopotence: same action, same result.
Nesting doll of lost futures, a relic
of an afterlife and the future cult,
merely breathing in the psychedelic.
There's more in the mortar
than the pestle will say,
what's real, what's fake,
what's in-between in the grey.
Pixels without proverbial provenance,
they both knew what they were.
Buffet Buddhists, defying cages,
tagged for progressive classification.
Wonder world, inexpressible problems,
all lonely, we live with each other.
Chronic complainers, a hundred times
a hundred, gloomy mind experiments.
The emotional surface of lost futures.
Do we know enough to know the truth?
Unconscious man grapples, but finds
little to grip, advanced, but enough?
Unreadable barbarian news file,
the experimental Machiavellian composer,
weary, whistles on the way home,
her faith in the process, crushed.
Eat the congregation, together,
smite them afraid, blast vessels.
O ye dead life, mercy, semblance
of a kind, a measure of shadow.
But, they had no prophet, neighbors
and friends, children of fate, troubled
the Others, remember them not, no-name,
wilderness sacrifices, sore consumed.
Desolation came and passed, Death,
bare the enemy, dead, desolate,
good and great together into the land,
begat headstones, seeds unto the earth.
Father of water, turn thyself,
out to sea, high between, separate,
sing of the living, purify mouths
and soul, fetch their inheritance.
Surge, rain on the wise borderlands,
pull the stopper, flush the tidal womb,
from the unleavened, and the unclean,
reborn, another offering to be devoured.
Another A.I. assist using a recently trained neural network using the King James version (KJV) as the corpus. Since this is the first neural network I tried myself, I learned many valuable lessons. It took 2.5 days the first go around, and the result was unusable because of all the newline characters in the original text. I didn’t realize that the text would have to be pre-processed or what it would entail. I plan on writing a post about the process of making Project Gutenberg texts usable as writing with the machine co-authors.
Also, there is a point to be made about the inherent class obstacles in learning and using neural networks. The differences from having a dedicated machine running the right hardware is the difference between waiting days to train a new model or a few hours. On the other end, speed also limits how big of a data set you are willing to start with. The KJV is about 5MB, and it took 2 days. Robin Sloan’s pre-trained text is around 123MB. Spending 24+ days to train a model is a serious barrier to entry.
The first in the first place,
The Others, standing beside us.
Aware of destruction, strange,
ineffectual, a matter of force.
The bare path, dark and closed,
From the stairs, an ascent of
story, a complicated service, clean,
psychological, a social alone.
The world has not yet been consumed
by the light of the stars. A universe
has all time and space, experience
a sliver, taste a slice of the whole.
Poem written primarily with Robin Sloan’s Writing With the Machine neural network with a sprinkle of Webster’s and some selection, moving about and adding of pieces to turn it into something that makes sense. Strikes me as a quick method of “writing” cut-up poetry. Although, given the source material for the neural network, these will be science fictiony until I can train up another corpus.
I think I’ll be able to try a King James version assisted composition, maybe tomorrow.
Whatever comes together | disintegrates, falls apart
the skeleton key fits, | unlocks our heart's door.
Desire, stormy weather | on a cartographer's chart,
wrinkled, it transmits| an unintelligible, mad lore.
The key catches the lock | faceted truth, splinters
dirty data, overload | bits are entangled, not lost.
Progress of the clock | mind strikes, then winters
ticking seconds, explode | the play, dis/plays its cost.
Words wound the heart | basecamp Sherpa of love
jungle justice, swamping | red over red, absent, loose
tears pool, drip, a start | the unbidden kind, above
the tiger, before chomping | life: marrow or juice?
Sight in blind eyes | illusion becomes truth
perfect error, knowing | one's body is another's bread
reach out, touch skies | blood transfuses into youth
lives reborn, growing | feed, burn, then again, dead.
Frames on the pictures | no happy, was ever after
the past cannot speak | so all are new/old battles.
In the face of strictures | hear the freedman's laughter
violence is for the weak | born again into new saddles.