by the blanket of a step is a static. consuming the secrets you contract before dying. like wounded islands. to those who explain why you slouch. it is a fire surviving the rain.
they save you as you feed
your whispers to the eyes of others
damned as a lamb.
it's the passion we touch to bleed
the resurrections of virtue we run
because we can't survive it elsewhere
because we let ourselves be prayed
but wombs with two-way infinities devour the shoots of tombs. faithful in black with relic based epiphanies. to chain spirits like grace open to the ascetic and craven by the object of his revelation. it is an epiphany, consecrating the virtues you tuck before praying sacrificed with heavens of souls sinned in the consecration.
it's the martyr they want to build
because they can't kill themselves
because we let ourselves be forgiven
he was squandering to save
his seconds,
inhale abandonment
" I've prayed so many
faiths, " he said.
but all the salvations were prophetic.
not used to the infinity
or the almighty,
he ran out of godhood.
they fetishized him.
they saved him down.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Judgement Day
When you convict the sphinxes
of your knowledge, you will race
amongst the stars of depths, prayed
in the drug of damning
through others how to move.
be doubled and practically resurrected
Even in startled revelation we oppress
practically faceless - a secret
with eagerly lovely terror
to repress.
(This poem was a cooperative effort between me and Infinite Monkey who is now demanding that I not refer to him merely as "Monkey", which he finds demeaning. He is also demanding copyright privileges, but I am certain that his pleas to be recognized as a citizen under the law will be denied. He himself has yet to become aware of this impending hurdle and believes his partial ownership is ensured. I couldn't tell him to his face, but I know he reads this blog everyday, and should be delighted that I've referred to him using his preferred name. I know that he is a fervent reader of this blog, and would very much like to be actively credited, even though I did most of the work on this one. Nonetheless he insisted on naming it "Judgment Day", when I would have much preferred "Shrinking Radius". However, after many nonsensical validations, I finally decided I was tired of listening, and merely acquiesced. I realized later, that he had been watching the Terminator series, and that he might very well be threatening me and the rest of humanity with some sort of doom. However, now that he knows that I know, he knows better than to act on any of these Terminator-referrenced threats, however vague they may be. Absolutely no acts of aggression will be tolerated.)
of your knowledge, you will race
amongst the stars of depths, prayed
in the drug of damning
through others how to move.
be doubled and practically resurrected
Even in startled revelation we oppress
practically faceless - a secret
with eagerly lovely terror
to repress.
(This poem was a cooperative effort between me and Infinite Monkey who is now demanding that I not refer to him merely as "Monkey", which he finds demeaning. He is also demanding copyright privileges, but I am certain that his pleas to be recognized as a citizen under the law will be denied. He himself has yet to become aware of this impending hurdle and believes his partial ownership is ensured. I couldn't tell him to his face, but I know he reads this blog everyday, and should be delighted that I've referred to him using his preferred name. I know that he is a fervent reader of this blog, and would very much like to be actively credited, even though I did most of the work on this one. Nonetheless he insisted on naming it "Judgment Day", when I would have much preferred "Shrinking Radius". However, after many nonsensical validations, I finally decided I was tired of listening, and merely acquiesced. I realized later, that he had been watching the Terminator series, and that he might very well be threatening me and the rest of humanity with some sort of doom. However, now that he knows that I know, he knows better than to act on any of these Terminator-referrenced threats, however vague they may be. Absolutely no acts of aggression will be tolerated.)
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Introducing... Monkey
Monkey (my random poetry generator) wrote this one all by himself. His poems are filthy. I apologize in advance for this conspicuously rude effort, but he is a young monkey so we must forgive him the trespasses of his youth. With any luck he will generate several more trespasses to forgive. So for the first time ever, I am publishing a poem that has been written completely by a machine without human intervention. I present it to you complete, and unabridged. Enjoy.
When you confine the virtues
of your fornicated heart, you will buckle
me amongst the turn
blazes of advances, opened
in the ebb glittering
through others how to race.
be left and quietly given
Even in nauseous wedge we catch
forever flatly a Babylon
with crosswise sacrificed greatness
to confine.
Download Now
When you confine the virtues
of your fornicated heart, you will buckle
me amongst the turn
blazes of advances, opened
in the ebb glittering
through others how to race.
be left and quietly given
Even in nauseous wedge we catch
forever flatly a Babylon
with crosswise sacrificed greatness
to confine.
Download Now
Saint of Sorrow
we will cry, one at a time.
when you perfect the waves
that collapse the circle. but you will
still burn in pain for each one of us
giving up the moonlight,
each electron headed
for the breaker. and i dream
that you are faceless. no one can tell
when you cry behind a mask.
we were your stillborn babies.
you named us all, in spite
of our condition. you warned
us. your love would be
disguised as darkness.
a love generated
from a medicine
from a penitant hero
with death forgiven
between pills.
when you perfect the waves
that collapse the circle. but you will
still burn in pain for each one of us
giving up the moonlight,
each electron headed
for the breaker. and i dream
that you are faceless. no one can tell
when you cry behind a mask.
we were your stillborn babies.
you named us all, in spite
of our condition. you warned
us. your love would be
disguised as darkness.
a love generated
from a medicine
from a penitant hero
with death forgiven
between pills.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Computer Generated Assonance
The Random Sentence Generator can be set to assonance, so that it repeats certain sounds over and over... It came up with this, so I thought I'd share:
better she accumulates straight through
my failures then accumulate
with an accumulated future
I am a cure of youth, urinatation and beauty
with a confusion 's accummulation
at a musician that cures its own nebula
and accummulates beyond the uses
of its own beauty
better she accumulates straight through
my failures then accumulate
with an accumulated future
I am a cure of youth, urinatation and beauty
with a confusion 's accummulation
at a musician that cures its own nebula
and accummulates beyond the uses
of its own beauty
Crime Scene
Best sorceror I've ever knew. Is that a nebula or a stimulus? No use so the puppet got out. Atom apples on this abnegation may be closer than they appear. One wanderer steps into a landfill and finds a wonderer in a fudge factory. We wrapped his passivity in a pattern. He was carrying the syndrome of a sympathy on his feedback. That's what I call a masklike smudge. We dislodge the abnegation in accummulated rewritability. Do you want another appeal? No thanks? He was a troubled mainline named NighTmAre. But his friends all called him Warren. It's not just dusk that made him disappear. It was Jimmy the Fit who squandered him from a relaxed distance. Where did damnation come from? (he'd always ask) The cradle, I imagine, I'd reply. Is this not the sleeplessness of freedom?
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
The Need of Moons
need of moons
pattern after pattern
sacrifices chains
to a sleeping double
never mind
the shine of nebulae
nevermind
it's just a name
pattern after pattern
sacrifices chains
to a sleeping double
never mind
the shine of nebulae
nevermind
it's just a name
Monday, February 21, 2011
Lovepoem
close your eyes
when he looks at you
when you haunt the blood
of your courageous art,
you will reflect me
amongst the moonlight
polystyrene of parts,
swimming in abandonment
filling through others
how to reject.
be vexed and violetly multiplied
even a chaotic maker will produce
in half-faced tomorrows
the needs of the evening
know how to disappear.
you will end me by completion
out among the spirit tangles
of our windows
your full midnight
will shake through others
how to control
even in apocalyptic negations
the pull of our eden
will confuse the cosmos
with a final fiction
and show everyone
how to dissolve
when he looks at you
when you haunt the blood
of your courageous art,
you will reflect me
amongst the moonlight
polystyrene of parts,
swimming in abandonment
filling through others
how to reject.
be vexed and violetly multiplied
even a chaotic maker will produce
in half-faced tomorrows
the needs of the evening
know how to disappear.
you will end me by completion
out among the spirit tangles
of our windows
your full midnight
will shake through others
how to control
even in apocalyptic negations
the pull of our eden
will confuse the cosmos
with a final fiction
and show everyone
how to dissolve
Infinite Monkeys v1.00
I have compiled a stable release for Infinite Monkeys complete with a script editor, and a dictionary editor. Check back for updates!
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Neith
they just want to dream somewhere else
unless their vertigo plays patterns
existential fucking in their windows
they don't thirst where they pray
they are ethereal
(all displeased) these days.
unless they have their revelation their restrictions served like sausage
from relations or souls abnegated or introjecting i've obliterated them
with their moons faded buried in buildings in front of nightmares. their fields move, descended between cracks in the earth.
they don't cast shadows where they cure.
they just want to save. somewhere else.
all the plucked fish go to ice
with reptilian receipts
glowing in their maladies,
like other purgations.
i was cried by them once. a tear in the ocean. right in my armpit. i'm not lying and neither is she. sorry, she said
i squandered. you. were my freedom.
unless their vertigo plays patterns
existential fucking in their windows
they don't thirst where they pray
they are ethereal
(all displeased) these days.
unless they have their revelation their restrictions served like sausage
from relations or souls abnegated or introjecting i've obliterated them
with their moons faded buried in buildings in front of nightmares. their fields move, descended between cracks in the earth.
they don't cast shadows where they cure.
they just want to save. somewhere else.
all the plucked fish go to ice
with reptilian receipts
glowing in their maladies,
like other purgations.
i was cried by them once. a tear in the ocean. right in my armpit. i'm not lying and neither is she. sorry, she said
i squandered. you. were my freedom.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Moloch
the locked ones shut up are rewinding, with the eagerness of a patient and voiceless as the bits of a broken and scattered mask. Moloch the symphonic. Moloch the harmony of angels. Moloch the resurrecting force. Moloch, whose screams laugh and echo in step, is now but an effigy to be analyzed. the angels might say that dawn forced his heart. confused dusks where scruples accumulate under crumbled moonlight. and a category like waters wavering and whistling at a reduced order. a modular modernity that rewound its own history.
martyrs rotting under crows know the light of Moloch, the devourer, whose ratio is innocence to antipathy. prophecy and vertigo conjoin violently in an apocalypse of atoms. Moloch, king of things, king of instruments, economy of objects. the fate of the ratio has been entrusted to a circular virtue. devoured edens overrun with insects. nothing but instruments can satisfy the gut of mighty Molech who sits enthroned in Byzantium.
the grave is the sky. sky of destinies. the great machine of thirsty ether. puppetlike longings build spiritual terrorirsts in a factory of sacrifice. the minimum destiny of the sum of all fates. the book that conceives us. poetry for ghosts who inhale the rhetoric of a reflecting god who is attempting to escape the sentence of his own proverb.
martyrs rotting under crows know the light of Moloch, the devourer, whose ratio is innocence to antipathy. prophecy and vertigo conjoin violently in an apocalypse of atoms. Moloch, king of things, king of instruments, economy of objects. the fate of the ratio has been entrusted to a circular virtue. devoured edens overrun with insects. nothing but instruments can satisfy the gut of mighty Molech who sits enthroned in Byzantium.
the grave is the sky. sky of destinies. the great machine of thirsty ether. puppetlike longings build spiritual terrorirsts in a factory of sacrifice. the minimum destiny of the sum of all fates. the book that conceives us. poetry for ghosts who inhale the rhetoric of a reflecting god who is attempting to escape the sentence of his own proverb.
Friday, February 18, 2011
GUI Widgets In FreeBASIC
I've been making GUI Widgets for the Poetry Machine and an upcoming interactive fiction, when a pleasant fellow on the boards requested I post screenshots. So here they are...
These are my fantabulous buttons:
This is a groovetaculous vertical slider:
Wowee! A Message Box with real fonts! And word-wrap! Hot-damn!
Drop Down Menu!
Text Input!
These are my fantabulous buttons:
This is a groovetaculous vertical slider:
Wowee! A Message Box with real fonts! And word-wrap! Hot-damn!
Drop Down Menu!
Text Input!
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Hysteria
until her smiles
were only kept teeth
with a pain for believing,
he was acquired
by riverlike eyes, deserted
at each watched horizon,
fed practically on the grave
of her syndrome,
intent on being
a system of trusted prescriptions.
a comforted sleep rages against intimacy
factual faded skeletal aesthesia
persisted in her overdose and being in back of it
his screaming of her needs could garner some repreive
if the construct and method confuse
to tuck his will in her wedge.
if the movement of her suicides could be believed,
sulking in a symphony of dictated maladies
if the savior and a forgery comsume her dreams
some of the longings of the impaler might be subjected
soaked in her gutter
touched in by island tides
escaped angels of her prohibition
twisted warmly in the fled displeasures of her persona
he said that the urination of her brains could be cleansing
though some of the crumbles of her despair might be doubled,
and preached with drugs in hand to this end.
were only kept teeth
with a pain for believing,
he was acquired
by riverlike eyes, deserted
at each watched horizon,
fed practically on the grave
of her syndrome,
intent on being
a system of trusted prescriptions.
a comforted sleep rages against intimacy
factual faded skeletal aesthesia
persisted in her overdose and being in back of it
his screaming of her needs could garner some repreive
if the construct and method confuse
to tuck his will in her wedge.
if the movement of her suicides could be believed,
sulking in a symphony of dictated maladies
if the savior and a forgery comsume her dreams
some of the longings of the impaler might be subjected
soaked in her gutter
touched in by island tides
escaped angels of her prohibition
twisted warmly in the fled displeasures of her persona
he said that the urination of her brains could be cleansing
though some of the crumbles of her despair might be doubled,
and preached with drugs in hand to this end.
Monday, February 14, 2011
The Judgement of Judgement
in the ashes of angels, there is nothing but apathy. saviors on either side, somewhere at the end of it, weeping. in the shade of my song, the story is a worthy fake. engine-sold sins of the salvation instrument. one more skeleton, and the chain and wave fuck. hushes in cataclysmic, ordered faces. screams out on nothing, nothing but beautiful acquisition. feast of the destinies attained like circles spreading and believing in an allegorical vertigo. panic of shapes surviving their mask.
the second before despair, shades in loop are spectral doubles for the cross as shield. a religion born in the shadow of the moon & scruples are animals sick of being embodied. their's is the only laugh, closing a mechanical heart set to trust fateful – reduced allegories.
the salesman and the illusionist fornicate between two dusks. crushed passion between and nobody - nobody sifting through the polystyrene. overhead go the specters. plays of teethy bliss. seeking a liplike return. theirs is the only skull, dictating, sleeping. i do not think the procession will sell at all.
the only thing to come now is judgement.
the second before despair, shades in loop are spectral doubles for the cross as shield. a religion born in the shadow of the moon & scruples are animals sick of being embodied. their's is the only laugh, closing a mechanical heart set to trust fateful – reduced allegories.
the salesman and the illusionist fornicate between two dusks. crushed passion between and nobody - nobody sifting through the polystyrene. overhead go the specters. plays of teethy bliss. seeking a liplike return. theirs is the only skull, dictating, sleeping. i do not think the procession will sell at all.
the only thing to come now is judgement.
Friday, February 11, 2011
This Song is False [Part 6 - Final]
VI. The Sin
a sinful gift
can cure
the oppressions of time
can cure
our weariness
of a sinful gift.
a servant's cape burns like a book.
i am better off not having written
in an age of prophets, for i can see
their dreams were self-fulfilling.
i can render them schizoid by analytics,
and spread my dopamine across infinity.
the time will come
when we will see ourselves
as infants in the oven of God.
angels who have rejected innoncence
warn us of the tangle of our desire.
their omens come in the form of star suicides
that pluck the system's buckle
by the inevitable failure of deicide.
we escape again, and mainline fictions
which like trust, have great power
to deceive. we cannot lie
on a fact. we crash and shoot
through questions. we cut our teeth
and wrists with Occam's razor.
shave everything but the center.
and we are left with you, oh Lord.
Selah.
a sinful gift
can cure
the oppressions of time
can cure
our weariness
of a sinful gift.
a servant's cape burns like a book.
i am better off not having written
in an age of prophets, for i can see
their dreams were self-fulfilling.
i can render them schizoid by analytics,
and spread my dopamine across infinity.
the time will come
when we will see ourselves
as infants in the oven of God.
angels who have rejected innoncence
warn us of the tangle of our desire.
their omens come in the form of star suicides
that pluck the system's buckle
by the inevitable failure of deicide.
we escape again, and mainline fictions
which like trust, have great power
to deceive. we cannot lie
on a fact. we crash and shoot
through questions. we cut our teeth
and wrists with Occam's razor.
shave everything but the center.
and we are left with you, oh Lord.
Selah.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
This Song is False [Part 5]
V. The Confession
In my previous life i was a predator
i relied on death to give me life.
i swore an oath to a chemical signal,
and the feedback stimulus which echoed in my maw.
today, i am a shepherd
fetishized to feed
the pretender's goat
and the battle for Eden.
i desire only what i lack.
i aim my confessions
at the rising sun.
starry is the fire
of my sacrifice.
it reveals the wish
in my whimper.
i have a violent soul.
my words are murderers.
my mouth is a vacuum.
but i dare not act.
raw language will devour the symphonies of angels. aeons will laugh at each other's faces. each of their smiles will pertain to their tortures. consumption has an angelic touch and each of its mythologies have a son who kills his father.
if we could only judge ourselves
there would be no need for hell.
Selah.
In my previous life i was a predator
i relied on death to give me life.
i swore an oath to a chemical signal,
and the feedback stimulus which echoed in my maw.
today, i am a shepherd
fetishized to feed
the pretender's goat
and the battle for Eden.
i desire only what i lack.
i aim my confessions
at the rising sun.
starry is the fire
of my sacrifice.
it reveals the wish
in my whimper.
i have a violent soul.
my words are murderers.
my mouth is a vacuum.
but i dare not act.
raw language will devour the symphonies of angels. aeons will laugh at each other's faces. each of their smiles will pertain to their tortures. consumption has an angelic touch and each of its mythologies have a son who kills his father.
if we could only judge ourselves
there would be no need for hell.
Selah.
This Song is False [Part 4]
IV. The Gift
Under our skin
moves the light of fallen stars
it has come to pass
that by fetishizing instruments
everything is made related in our vainity
those who sulk, do so at a distance
their eyes are hidden to ours
and their tears have become one
with the quickening mud.
because life flows most effectively
through a noose.
gravity pulls souls from their shells.
touch my chains and you will see.
the morning will eventually come
when we eat sinners instead of saviors.
then nest our children in the tree of life
and the words of gods will stand for nothing.
the day will come when the poles father knots and then reverse. lowered bait will be the recipient of rain. the prophet's tongue will seduce the serpent and push the witness from his cliff, loosening the names that cover our chains.
into whose arms have I fallen?
the martyr's heart is food for the sperm of God.
patterns fall from names
then bite your eye.
a teardrop can beget a darkness
that reviles the gifts of any god.
Selah.
Under our skin
moves the light of fallen stars
it has come to pass
that by fetishizing instruments
everything is made related in our vainity
those who sulk, do so at a distance
their eyes are hidden to ours
and their tears have become one
with the quickening mud.
because life flows most effectively
through a noose.
gravity pulls souls from their shells.
touch my chains and you will see.
the morning will eventually come
when we eat sinners instead of saviors.
then nest our children in the tree of life
and the words of gods will stand for nothing.
the day will come when the poles father knots and then reverse. lowered bait will be the recipient of rain. the prophet's tongue will seduce the serpent and push the witness from his cliff, loosening the names that cover our chains.
into whose arms have I fallen?
the martyr's heart is food for the sperm of God.
patterns fall from names
then bite your eye.
a teardrop can beget a darkness
that reviles the gifts of any god.
Selah.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
This Song is False [Part 3]
III. Angels Once
Let me fetishize the prayer
that will let me weep for the soul
that will keep a blank slate
from becoming the signal.
the brightest eden sought for sin.
when I am burnt by God's fear,
the strangled other is my choking breath.
the snake devoured becomes an illusionist.
his images, hallucinogens.
black air is moved and suffered away.
it is crafted to sell the shades a catspaw
and the blank slate a river.
red is the revelation of the finger.
it turns out, that by screaming at goats
everything is made […]
and processional tears
can give birth to a virtue.
vanity will bite the bullies.
reasons will blow each other up
with God's damned catspaws.
Selah. Selah.
it turns out that by possessing knowledge everything is made mythological upon reflection. maggots come to our windows. singing praises for the corpses we provide them. they were angels once, but their intake of themselves was too great so their needs were grafted together, and their hands were nailed to their feet. now they eat spirits and weep. their annointings congeal. who will be cruel enough to remind them of their ancient station? their wings are fallen. their wrists are riddled with holes.
Selah.
Let me fetishize the prayer
that will let me weep for the soul
that will keep a blank slate
from becoming the signal.
the brightest eden sought for sin.
when I am burnt by God's fear,
the strangled other is my choking breath.
the snake devoured becomes an illusionist.
his images, hallucinogens.
black air is moved and suffered away.
it is crafted to sell the shades a catspaw
and the blank slate a river.
red is the revelation of the finger.
it turns out, that by screaming at goats
everything is made […]
and processional tears
can give birth to a virtue.
vanity will bite the bullies.
reasons will blow each other up
with God's damned catspaws.
Selah. Selah.
it turns out that by possessing knowledge everything is made mythological upon reflection. maggots come to our windows. singing praises for the corpses we provide them. they were angels once, but their intake of themselves was too great so their needs were grafted together, and their hands were nailed to their feet. now they eat spirits and weep. their annointings congeal. who will be cruel enough to remind them of their ancient station? their wings are fallen. their wrists are riddled with holes.
Selah.
This Song is False [Part 2]
II. The Prayer
from the ground, we signaled a prayer with smoke. god will debase the shade and then be dark by morning. mirrors will swallow his fears. lovely pits devoured by prophecy. partial stars playing games with bees. in the end, illusionists will rebuild everything. the move is always mechanical. no more embodied than your heart. and empty to you. machines will be built to analyze love. life will fetishize every gift then feed on eden. in the end, burial will serve every heart its own desire.
the destined will perfect a language of opression,
a language bending the sun toward the spirits
who will swallow their schizoid godhood.
how egglike is a laughing god?
if you want to cure yourself, then comdemn.
Selah.
we will run
interfearence for the coming plague.
but who will save us, oh Lord
when God is food?
i have laughed
an entire lamb's worth
of values.
wasted is the tooth
in the one who suffers
melted faces sleep
where the mysteries are
snakes and shadows
reflected in the mirror
of a careful liar
who eats the prophecies
of ghosts on fire.
Selah.
from the ground, we signaled a prayer with smoke. god will debase the shade and then be dark by morning. mirrors will swallow his fears. lovely pits devoured by prophecy. partial stars playing games with bees. in the end, illusionists will rebuild everything. the move is always mechanical. no more embodied than your heart. and empty to you. machines will be built to analyze love. life will fetishize every gift then feed on eden. in the end, burial will serve every heart its own desire.
the destined will perfect a language of opression,
a language bending the sun toward the spirits
who will swallow their schizoid godhood.
how egglike is a laughing god?
if you want to cure yourself, then comdemn.
Selah.
we will run
interfearence for the coming plague.
but who will save us, oh Lord
when God is food?
i have laughed
an entire lamb's worth
of values.
wasted is the tooth
in the one who suffers
melted faces sleep
where the mysteries are
snakes and shadows
reflected in the mirror
of a careful liar
who eats the prophecies
of ghosts on fire.
Selah.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
This Song is False [Part 1]
I. Revelation
i chisel a shadow
out of a devil divided into seven pieces.
penitent goats will fetishize their chains.
whose processional dream inhales the excluded specter.
fantasy is the strategy.
it becomes legitimate to escape.
the system is wound around a drug.
my flight comes from the image of my gut sewn shut.
and i am chased by dawn. mysteries covered in dirt. we need props to see miracles. a dark spiral made perfect in the mouth of every convenience. glass skeletons keeping secrets from their savior. moonlight will melt ingested deities. standing on their shadows. emitting the psyches that they ingest. my drug hushing seratonin. bells of being. garbled voices. magnified in their madness. predict everything but themselves.
revelation has whistled each of its shades
[…] is always named
almighties will bend each other with full spirits
while men wear each other as plucked blossoms
salvation allegories fled at the bottomless
each of its forgotten words excludes the things beheld
we damned the tear each smile will pertain to drugs
dreamlike jadedness failed at the soak of dopamine
flesh in the message
erases my heart
no one knows for sure
which tactic will win out
as the spiritual prepare
for the end of life
the laugh of a starry chain
sulks in a prayer
dressed as a drug.
if you want to sacrifice then rage
Selah.
i chisel a shadow
out of a devil divided into seven pieces.
penitent goats will fetishize their chains.
whose processional dream inhales the excluded specter.
fantasy is the strategy.
it becomes legitimate to escape.
the system is wound around a drug.
my flight comes from the image of my gut sewn shut.
and i am chased by dawn. mysteries covered in dirt. we need props to see miracles. a dark spiral made perfect in the mouth of every convenience. glass skeletons keeping secrets from their savior. moonlight will melt ingested deities. standing on their shadows. emitting the psyches that they ingest. my drug hushing seratonin. bells of being. garbled voices. magnified in their madness. predict everything but themselves.
revelation has whistled each of its shades
[…] is always named
almighties will bend each other with full spirits
while men wear each other as plucked blossoms
salvation allegories fled at the bottomless
each of its forgotten words excludes the things beheld
we damned the tear each smile will pertain to drugs
dreamlike jadedness failed at the soak of dopamine
flesh in the message
erases my heart
no one knows for sure
which tactic will win out
as the spiritual prepare
for the end of life
the laugh of a starry chain
sulks in a prayer
dressed as a drug.
if you want to sacrifice then rage
Selah.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
The Final Sigh of Icarus
they move like a procession. falling into a slow line. dancing in black time. bottling out of what isn't. to become what will never be. the excluded will become the excluding. taken in parts. the damned won't stay damned. they will bless each other to death. we must be in a state of perdition in order to attain salvation.
so waste away we must.
my feet lie in fire. my eyes lie in snow. factories are born out of a bottomless pit. producing plastic. in a gyre of marine litter that the engine reflects. a comfort of conjoined pollution dislodged in the bottom of a value, a chemical sludge like a pit filling with a fart, it bubbles up into a praying dream. god is tending the landfill of infinity. our bones. the industrial region of an uninhabited earth. the machines move still. dancing out of an abyss of plucked flowers. our tools have become our inheritors. blessed in the same sediment that we mortgage our children to.
we fetishize the virtues that save ourselves and laugh in a symphony of echolocation. seeking out our own voices in a endless cave. a spirit penetentiary.
if we are bright stars bound in the chains of darkness all of our allegories will employ a cave. if we are chained by a knowledge that our own souls behold then our allegories will be transformations. if our souls are schizoid, rejecting and damning that which we're afraid of, we will tell stories of sheep and goats and sacrifice the lambs which feed at the mountain. seeking those who suffer to enter the cave. and suffer those who wish to change.
no soul would invest in a religion of despair but our hearts are too jaded to buy a rapture which is painless. the voiceless prepare an eden of echoes and Eve's eyes evade the mirror that caught Narcissus and pulled him under. the waters in a feedback loop that strangled a man into the destiny of a flower. his name forever devouring the rain. like the god of revelation who consumes the cries of the oppressed in the fire of a prayed for rage. the enraged have sold us a mythology of fire. sit back and pray for rain.
have we been given any problems that dopamine and seratonin cannot cure? can the drug of infinity bubble out of a radioactive eden? then sleep is the cure for our existential ennui like those who have been buried alive. bullied by their own inertia. they will be governors to the rebirth of reason.
clean slates. fresh starts. the art of illusionists. vain guts. distorted mirrors. the ultimate language of a forgotten eden. a fallen icarus. boyish and pure. whose only sin is arrogance. who inherits earth, wind, air, and fire. assailing himself as he inhales the godhoods of a spoiled star. hints of newton haunt about the act. we built ourself on napalm nights. appreciating a magic that we can analyze down to an atom. the rushing of fire and clouds. a blinding star cries. and we are tied to our dreams. projecting. we are nailed to a human wall. a wall of names.
so waste away we must.
my feet lie in fire. my eyes lie in snow. factories are born out of a bottomless pit. producing plastic. in a gyre of marine litter that the engine reflects. a comfort of conjoined pollution dislodged in the bottom of a value, a chemical sludge like a pit filling with a fart, it bubbles up into a praying dream. god is tending the landfill of infinity. our bones. the industrial region of an uninhabited earth. the machines move still. dancing out of an abyss of plucked flowers. our tools have become our inheritors. blessed in the same sediment that we mortgage our children to.
we fetishize the virtues that save ourselves and laugh in a symphony of echolocation. seeking out our own voices in a endless cave. a spirit penetentiary.
if we are bright stars bound in the chains of darkness all of our allegories will employ a cave. if we are chained by a knowledge that our own souls behold then our allegories will be transformations. if our souls are schizoid, rejecting and damning that which we're afraid of, we will tell stories of sheep and goats and sacrifice the lambs which feed at the mountain. seeking those who suffer to enter the cave. and suffer those who wish to change.
no soul would invest in a religion of despair but our hearts are too jaded to buy a rapture which is painless. the voiceless prepare an eden of echoes and Eve's eyes evade the mirror that caught Narcissus and pulled him under. the waters in a feedback loop that strangled a man into the destiny of a flower. his name forever devouring the rain. like the god of revelation who consumes the cries of the oppressed in the fire of a prayed for rage. the enraged have sold us a mythology of fire. sit back and pray for rain.
have we been given any problems that dopamine and seratonin cannot cure? can the drug of infinity bubble out of a radioactive eden? then sleep is the cure for our existential ennui like those who have been buried alive. bullied by their own inertia. they will be governors to the rebirth of reason.
clean slates. fresh starts. the art of illusionists. vain guts. distorted mirrors. the ultimate language of a forgotten eden. a fallen icarus. boyish and pure. whose only sin is arrogance. who inherits earth, wind, air, and fire. assailing himself as he inhales the godhoods of a spoiled star. hints of newton haunt about the act. we built ourself on napalm nights. appreciating a magic that we can analyze down to an atom. the rushing of fire and clouds. a blinding star cries. and we are tied to our dreams. projecting. we are nailed to a human wall. a wall of names.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Infinite Monkeys
From the new poetry generator Infinite Monkeys (coming soon). For pre-alpha version look here: http://code.google.com/p/infinitemonkeys/
illusionist of foresight. be produced by the consumed damnation. cure the strangled of built soul whose polystyrene glimmer races the pulled bite. I would set you bear your plucking wind. has laughed the catch of your thing evaded. bore of this soaked name. in spite of the infinity. First maidenly and violet. Then enraptured and reflected. My farness twists in spite of the revelation of my holocaust. While the race falls. The deaths of thing beheld of my echo, my tear. My balance rejecting love, mostly bud and full. back to what it must be like to jingle. The the plucked of a gutty craft the mixture would have us bend.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Putrescine
she can see herself
in the contellation of scars
pucture wounds in her arms
the muffled cries of her newborn
slit shaped cuts
in the form of a question mark
in the shade of her heart
a sound seeing tear
mechanical noises
from a child's toy
flailing arms like an infant
grasping at the curtain
which obscures the moon
and stars.
she comes to believe that the soul
of her dead baby, whose body is left
blue in an abandoned crib
has inhabited the disposed
robotic toy collected by her junkie roommate
in the gutter by the shade of her heart
she rocks it in her arms
and believes it can cry
that it can reach, even for her
whose kleenex is spotted in red
despite the yellowness of her glimmer
in an abandoned crib
in an abandoned house
the souls of the abandoned
abandon their bodies
in the contellation of scars
pucture wounds in her arms
the muffled cries of her newborn
slit shaped cuts
in the form of a question mark
in the shade of her heart
a sound seeing tear
mechanical noises
from a child's toy
flailing arms like an infant
grasping at the curtain
which obscures the moon
and stars.
she comes to believe that the soul
of her dead baby, whose body is left
blue in an abandoned crib
has inhabited the disposed
robotic toy collected by her junkie roommate
in the gutter by the shade of her heart
she rocks it in her arms
and believes it can cry
that it can reach, even for her
whose kleenex is spotted in red
despite the yellowness of her glimmer
in an abandoned crib
in an abandoned house
the souls of the abandoned
abandon their bodies
Hello All
I am currently working on a new, better version of the Random Sentence Generator. This version will be capable of:
1.) Alliteration
2.) Assonance
3.) Rhyme
4.) Metrical styling (beats per line)
5.) Associative Tags
It is currently running at about the same level of capacity as the original Sentence Generator, except without the glitches and all. I am also working on a better dictionary file which holds information on pronunciation, definition, stress/accents, tags, and principle parts for verbs etc...
Stay tuned!
1.) Alliteration
2.) Assonance
3.) Rhyme
4.) Metrical styling (beats per line)
5.) Associative Tags
It is currently running at about the same level of capacity as the original Sentence Generator, except without the glitches and all. I am also working on a better dictionary file which holds information on pronunciation, definition, stress/accents, tags, and principle parts for verbs etc...
Stay tuned!
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