the weapons appear quite serene. his head.
suspended in his eyes blink. & he aims up.
She hears the claw snag hold of her ears.
Holy fuckin' shit. You ain't seen it up
at the base of these tools.
A little bugger ain't -
it wasn't real.
None of it.
Nothing.
it's me
when they built a Coke
they can barely breathe
he can control his stare
in his chair (Good good)
Nothing but my eyes.
wired to spinal fluid
every ounce of a miracle
jerking itself into the phone
dropping. dangling by the
tranquilized gun of
another g0d's dead men
They can't say it seems to
the street. when we were a curtain.
talking to an ambulance. listening.
losing every hand of cards he plays.
nervously as they were. Unnerved ducks
all in a row. we would be a computer.
slowly pulling away.
I've been dependent on the most dangerous man who ever existed. a phantasm of meat & sweat & blood. the after thought of WASTE LINE CLICK. fires --
& fades away.
<(8)(8)(8)>
corpus = The Matrix Screenplay
method = n-grams, cut-up
generator = j(Infinite Monkeys) v0.5
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)
Thursday, February 20, 2014
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