'The Death of Floyd'

How many gods from your torso to mine?
My church nurtured around your name.
Europa and Mary collect suicides
collapse into elbows,
being sacrificed with mutinous lambs.
I am married and you are not here.
I am noisy as a poison
annoyed as an aimless sensation
Emulsify again.
I ployed what the thing suckles from me.
You were not near my function tonight.
eternal mother thrust crosswise
my moistures yapping sunburn
How many boys from your step to mine?
My teacher turned around your terrorist.
I am foiled you are not here.
I am beaten as a waist
hollow as an augured source
desires to collect
on the sunburns
soldiers ploying on warriors and Marduk won’t compel them
eternal as spirits poisoned with manifestation

Hyper-DADA

So with my brand new toy, the Random Sentence Generator which I wrote from scratch, I have produced the following poem. I translated the grammar of the first couple stanzas of the Amy King poem The Psalms Called Breath and it came out a little something like this:

I have been prayed by the eternal coils. First boyish and deaf. Then athletic and disjointed. My noise emulsified beyond the sunburn of my business. While the sensation is. The noises of yeti within my head, my poison. My journalist talking a sonorous mystery, mostly yesterday and conjoined. Back to what it must be like to endanger. The armpit of a new bacteria the steroid would have us split.

The script:

#VERBFIRST. First #ADJ and #ADJ. Then #ADJ and #ADJ. My #NOUN #PRESENT_ACTIVE_3S #PREPOSITION the #NOUN of my #NOUN. While the #NOUN #PRESENT_ACTIVE_3S. The #NOUN+ of #NOUN #PREPOSITION my #NOUN, my #NOUN. My #NOUN #PARTICIPLE_PRESENT #SUBJECT, mostly #NOUN and #ADJ. back to what it must be like to #INFINITIVE. The #NOUN of a #ADJ #NOUN the #NOUN would have us #INFINITIVE.

Random Sentence Generator

game of fit. be bid on by the concrete person. I would echo you to collapse into your retiring circle. has extracted the forest of your blanket was out of this characterized catastrophe. toward the finger. angle of foam. be assailed by the concrete sunburn. besmirch the games of animalistic stuff whose concrete moment is the mental combat. I would consume you to cry your desiring sunburn. has prayed the blanket of your eye. characterized on this contradicted ground. out of the sensation.

That blessed gem is the produce of my upcoming poetry machine. A poetry generator which runs on scripts that look like this:

#NOUN of #NOUN. #IMPERATIVE_PASSIVE by the #ADJ #NOUN. #IMPERATIVE the #NOUN+ of #ADJ #NOUN whose #ADJ #NOUN #PRESENT_ACTIVE_3S the #ADJ #NOUN. I #CONDITIONAL you to #INFINITIVE your #PARTICIPLE_PRESENT #NOUN. #PERFECT_3S the #NOUN of your #NOUN. #AORIST_ACTIVE_3S #PREPOSITION this #PARTICIPLE_PAST #NOUN. #PREPOSITION the #NOUN.

WordPlay

Contradictions/Paradox and Time

Varela was particularly impressed by Spencer-Brown’s interpretation of paradox when certain higher degree equations reentered themselves. When this occurred, marked states appeared to equate with unmarked ones.

Rather than view this as the simultaneous presence of contradictory states, Spencer-Brown understood this as an oscillation between different, opposite states of the form. With this insight, Spencer-Brown believed he'd discovered the primitive foundations of time emanating out of primitive space implied by first distinctions.

Wyrd & Words

The threads of wyrd are a dimension of ourselves that we cannot grasp with words. We spin webs of words, yet wyrd slips through like the wind. The secrets of wyrd do not lie in our word-hoards, but are locked in the soul. We can only discern the shadows of reality with our words, whereas our souls are capable of encountering the realities of wyrd directly. This is why wyrd is accessible to the sorcerer: the sorcerer sees with his soul, not with eyes blinkered by the shape of words.



Do not live your life searching around for answers in your word-hoard. You will find only words to rationalize your experience. Allow yourself to open to wyrd and it will cleanse, renew, change, and develop your casket of reason. Your word-hoard should serve your experience, not the reverse.



Words can be potent magic indeed, but they also can enslave us. We grasp from wyrd tiny puffs of wind and store them in our lungs as words. But we have not thereby captured a piece of reality, to be poured over and examined like it is a glimpse of wyrd. We may as well mistake our fistfuls of air for wind itself, or a pitcher of water for the stream from which it was dipped. That is the way we are enslaved by our own power to name things.

From the Way of the Wyrd by Brian Bates