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.
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.
On top of Everest, in my mind,
a dark cloud, lightning blasts,
a hurricane of controversies, unwind
below, nonsense sea, fish net casts.
The Sherpa is fishing about
prefers an understanding cartel.
Procrustean commodities—easier without
a heart, a totalitarian Tinkerbell.
Feelings, the repugnant social Other,
are the dream within the dream.
Before we think, we must feel, brother,
a mind | heart alone, cannot reign supreme.
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.
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.
“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?
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,
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.