dusk cannot eat history and hammer in a shell. the seat of a butterfly or a masochist's hell. the sulking shriek of a stroke of luck. from the homeless dreams of a calculator's fuck.
definition cannot move gravity or explain the portraits of a schizophrenic. heaven in a new dream. strangled in an animal's scream. the sandman better cry from the outside and empty into a field of bees. the emptiness. thrust crosswise. my desire around your day cell like a pimp in business season, moons through critical fornications and i heard her call my name.
rock and roll, baby. fear cannot bubble into a bankster's martyr. nor creep into the feeling that we're all linguistic knots. the hunter's kiss is a potential gift from a material god who collapsed into your field. and multiplied into names. i intercept the center. you avoid my secret demarcation, creating with a separation. like an angel being analyzed by a rat. dusk can eat history. lamenting the mystery of a phenomenal supercomputer.
i degrade again. you point me to the door. the vine of heaven is around my neck. a disposable sanity. a conjecture of the speculum. suckled around your clarity. dawn will eat history with a normative sun and a universal tooth.
another day then. one hundred years then. a grinding halt, then, the chaoticist becomes a god-knot. better assimilate into a punisher or the birds will sing an apocalypse of apples and our knees will become bloodflowers mirrored with peoples.
dawn will eat history, and rewrite our names in a homesick heaven. to be mused by sentient reptiles, who repopulate the stratasphere and dance on our bones.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7q5WjYjzrEQ
Computer poetry is warfare carried out by other means, a warfare against conventionality and language that has become automatized. Strange as it seems, our finite state automata have become the poet’s allies in this struggle, the long historical battle by which mankind pries into the surface of language to reveal its latent mysteries… R.W. Bailey, Computer Poems (1973)
Friday, December 17, 2010
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Popular Posts
-
all is vanity so said the LORD (praise me) men put bitter justified rejections over sunshine flaming sword upon a dove the only shade is a r...
-
they may never stir from their hell in the far end of heaven they descend from the terrible august crown of God from a pen of flaming...
-
spiral mythologies for circular gods the nesting reflex of parrot cataclysms the incest principle of royal bloodlines pharaohs don't rot...
-
the line becomes a circle becomes a figure 8 knot the container becomes to capture the antibody bifurcation matrix the one penetrat...
-
would we be puppetlike then sell our glow and have it repelled back if we are convicts against fiction then let our trackmarks be shown in t...
No comments:
Post a Comment