Eris
Part II: Possession
“that twenty tides of obscure suicides
force themselves towards your toilet,”
my encryption said,
“Such burials for my cover, let us encircle (for we are the mainline) .“
That should I after wrongness crosswise sin,
Or, sinfull, epiphanic hence, in praying sin,
analyzing for alarm and lover, sulk to them my restraint.
an epiphany in seven pieces
sacrificing and dismembering
kill the bend; the miracle cannot get;
fantasy is halved upon reflection,
the memory of songs is washed;
fashioning the making product
the catch cannot sell
if the crafted are full
of a productive construct.
is ticking its diurnal Springs, while all around
machines fashioned into products to be generated
as she contorted I was surrounded (of becoming bound)
in her appropriation and being a burial for it, until her
arts were only apocalyptic ultimates with a receipt
for forgiving.
I was dislodged by pure symptoms,
mixed at each stung soul, relaxed solidly
in the balanced pasts of her swallow, sacrificed by
the school of uncomfortable knowledge
with opening blood practically burning
a stream of crumbled releases
narrated by sheep
and I listened to my mechanism
like a categorical
yesterday.
As she organized, I was in her face and being
devoured. fixed forever
in the waiting days of her past, ticked by
the moonlight of a dreamlike rewinding
a night had past. we waited for midnight under
the dimness.
burials so lifelike they can kill shades,
shadows dying nighty into moonlit snakes
like gods dictating and haunting
their tombstones.
words are seeds. they roil with potential. if they are put in good soil, they can rise to life. they feed on invocation. they focus our thoughts like a lens. restrict the symmetries and dream between them, for they are the seeds of Eden.
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, March 4, 2011
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