There’s More in the Mortar Than the Pestle

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.

Semi-Auto Cut-Up: Experimental Condition

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.

Semi-Auto Cut-Up: Another Offering (KJV)

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.

Semi-Auto Cut-Up: The First in the First Place

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.

sam | sara

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.

Dystopian Fever Dream

It's lonely, a technician in psychospace                                                                                 
a cursed world, an immortal cancerscape
residual runoff of human desire, the interface
with incessant demons and no hope of escape.

The lumpen digitariat, creating the villages
necessary for the village idiots, Radio Rental.
Sympathy for the monks, drunks and cabbages,
they say, "Authoritarian deliberation is coinky-dental."

The Mean World thrives on adrenaline poisoning.
Refuseniks, just another demographic of the dumb.
Honor dies where interest lies, darkening
what you see is all there is, all you'll become.

Love: Verb or Noun?

“Only where love and need are one,
And the work is play for mortal stakes,
Is the deed ever really done
For Heaven and the future’s sakes.”

– Robert Frost, Two Tramps in Mud Time

“Love is a verb,” a cliché
truth overused, still rings true –
a burglar alarm announcing thieves
in a grocery store after the riot.

A half truth, a single face
when there are two, verb and noun.
Caring for a child with fever
is love, complete and complex.

A child tied to a chance beginning,
a class, church, online, a line.
Conceived in an empty condom box.
Born to grasp, hearts and breasts.

The sick child of this moment,
descended, a baby’s “Dada,”
a mother’s passion in a wheel of:
mothers, fathers and newborn others.

Love is a verb? It may be, but –
it is a verb with history.
History, real and imagined
of princes who turn into toads.

Pedestals are for broken hearts,
the ground is where things grow.
A sick child tended, becomes
fruit at another wedding party.

Sea salt, bee wing whispers,
worms in the soil of ancestors.
An old love begets new love
and brands it with its mark.

Who can see the mark of love?
Who can say, verb or noun?
And later, who can say it was
a thing, deed or fantasy?

Mutantis Mutandis

Electroculture overcoded 
A spiritual Alcatraz, thrown
in solitary, locked & loaded,
artificial dreams, a clone.

Read the unwritten text,
the rongorongo of the soul, 
Nostradamas of the next, 
turnkey tyranny in a bowl.

A guinea pig often forgets:
half sterile + half feral +
normal distribution mindsets +
harmless untruths == peril.

In the world, in the Abusement parks,
soulless sinceretrons of misogyny,
xenofeminist cyborgs & beauty patriarchs
together in a fuck rife with ignomity.

Anhedonia, sealed in a shrine,
wokescienti, schizo-critical,
pleasure threshold, decline
scrolling is apocalyptical.

McMansions, corporate pablum
billionaires in armed lifeboats,
in the flotsam of crisis capitalism
those with guns get the votes.

In the grotesquerie of the Real,
agendas, exopolitic extra-terrestial
over stochistic chance, to feel
choose meaning, over being immaterial.

Everyone, themselves a carnival.
Suspend truth, believe as you will
no difference, fact abominable,
same: blue, red or any other pill.

Salad Messiah

(413 words)

Our rule: we do whatever the fuck we want,
a heavenly kakistocracy, the Host on High:
flâneur, stumblebums, mollycoddled half-humps
handing down a queasy quadroonerie of essentialism,
an Aleatory principle, WYSIATI. A carceral state
on this side of the multiverse, one eternity in eternities,
waving Ludwig Wittgenstein’s magical bracelet of meaning,
dropping spiritual gems cattywampus into the matrix.

Weltschmerz, Temple of Tears, a Gruen Transfer design,
shopping center with pews, an overwatch choir over the throg:
a Cucuy, a boojam, a 52 hertz whale, Pomgolians,
an American without an opinion, werewolves, in short:
an assembly of chancers in life’s lobby,
all carne por la machina, singing with drums
a solastalgi psalm of Schadenfreude, a beating:
kto, kogo, kto, kogo, kto, kogo, kto, kogo.
A pointless, stochastic cacophony, burning incense,
the smell of hobo feet, el zorrillo no huele a si mismo.

The ushers, Kunga Dhondup and Jára da Cimrman
the hardest men on the cobbled corridors,
enlightened Buddhas of subterranean impulses,
meshuge Sicario, shtarker, and enforcers.
Specialists in killing, kompromat & reinigungskrise
forging mind manacles, permanent Radio Rental,
physician/operators of Tausk’s Influence Machine,
projecting paranoias, diagnosing Mean World Syndrome,
a closed ideology echo chamber of glossolalia and/or
inconsistently applied crypto-Saxonist bafflegab.

Before the altar, the priest Charvaka, panjandrum,
a factual Laocoön of the money-based caste system,
a rectum-faced MC, barking, 40 and Ω decibels,
crafting modern bube meyseh, studied sciolism built on
the illusion of hindsight, authoritarian deliberation to rewrite
the Hottel memo as scripture using a Rube Goldberg device,
a kugelblitz in the Overton window, the fourfold vision:
(1) neltiliztli of ourselves, not selfies; (2) omotenashi;
(3) seykhl in facies hermeticae and demolishing Thomassons;
(4) chance is a roll of the disdyakis tricontahedron.

The Antikythera Mechanism points to the Age of Ophiuchus,
Orber’s light so bright, aphakia, focus on the fuzziness.
Forgotten arm of realization, a rossignol with delta v,
death’s rathskeller is open to all and needs no key,
The Pratfall Effect, is the sign on the door, situated
in the ghetto for grinds, the district of busyness
where life is cheap, but it ain’t ever easy.
But no one ever made it to beyond Kraken Mare,
using Lojban: magical, pure but also wrong.

Semden is the the akoisexual prostitute, a non-believer,
bête noire of the margins, with cynegetic tendencies.
Lojong, aware karada living the one-man rucksack revolution.
The long road to hektemorage: métro, boulot, dodo.
The only buona morte, kodokushi, redeemer of the age.
Auftragstaktik: enlightenment, then blasting off, higher.