Swordsman, go home! Forests shall be no more, Our taste for war is gone, Favoured trees have grown. Nobles shall be no more, No new kings be proclaimed, Of all her princes, gone, Her world led astray. Open doors, open forms, Cold, Enourmous castles, Forts, or formal courtyards. Informal castes, people, Making walls, floors, or ceilings. It matters where you stand, to the boards. Suppose also, toward unknown, Battlefields always need a war, Despite reform, broken bones, Foreign loans, foreign ownership, Moral codes or mortal blows. For it heeds no appeal, Not even for their souls. Dinner for four, e un quarto However, foremost, they see trolls. A photo's floorboards, reasons for war. Yet they sit aside and hope for resolve, Fear in their heart they hope to ignore.
Shapeshifter, sex symbol, Lord, Like you imagine your next form, Aging wrinkles, Alone, Civil from war. Great mirror, What's a beach without a shore? Those who change an elaborate hoax. They imagine thinking, then approach, Like ideas read from novels and books. Plane ticket, images, visions, more, Imagining yourself at home, Opium, an anonymous quote, You take the drugs you owe for, In your veins, up the nose. Fictional, your world becomes, Because fiction is all you know. Shapeshifter, pegs in your holes, You imagine delightful chorus, Even though you are alone. Violent, calloused and lonesome. Without war to be calloused from. Great Mirror, Piper, Peter, Could you play me a tune Or at least leave me alone? I favour the fear I know fighting. Not the thunder and lightning, You bring when you're home.
A rabbit runs free, in the past, Toward nothing it finds meaning. Fish of streams, pivot teeth, Laughter, tongue chatter, sea. By the brine they find peace, And man, king of beasts. Man forms groups, Parts in two, like lips, The bartender and you. Glass tightly in a grasp, Like a woman's clasp, Like a rabbit in a trap, Wiggle dance, calls, Nobody calls back. Like man, cash advanced, Wiggle dance, calls, Calls, nobody calls back. That man can run like a rabbit, Dance like a rabbit, Hears like a rabbit, Fears the language of diagrams, Candles and passwords. He describes freedom, devoid of it's traps, Talking about assholes out of sadness and anger. He tries to understand, too foolish in banter, Expanding his mind with standards that matter, His reaction barely examined, rather managed, Inside he feels his wiggles, the dance begins, What can exist, he thinks as a passing thing, Kicks and springs his feet, never hears a ring.
Octopus language— a liquid whisper to fish. You would never know. Artificial dream made for a lonely machine. Logical blunder. These glimpses of you, neither invention nor collapse would be more lonely. Condense your rival knight into red and a warning under your shoes. Plasma forms a line. Boundary between light and liquid given up. Turquoise milk mixing into my porridge. Daily occurrence.
Sickle swing into the grass, Thinking of pictures, gifts, Hoping they still persist, Hopes for more than past. Head in the clouds, riddles, Under his cap, a fickle thing. Sickle swing the earth and drag, He touches her breasts and legs, Permitting his heart fleeting To consider something risqué.
He coughs, feels the black ink on his palm If he cast speech, a last kiss on her lips, All his faults and all her resolve. He calls it god but his heart does not, He has simple, economic thoughts, of films, of myths, he knows little of.
Trying to break free, like a caterpillar. The feeling is of great joy and relief, Like a child being born, finally feels. Acronyms describe the experience, He became, "I", in the moment, Realized, in his essence, Idyllic, His dreaming was all he was. Heart curls into a ball, Wraps himself in yarn, Forgets the thoughts that haunt him, It doesnt solve wants or give cause, But he explodes in vivid color, Looking like an inexpensive car, He flies fast to escape the closing walls.
There are chunks in that soup, and cubes, Mashed potatoes in there somewhere too. All around me, the café's chatter: The onion has a story to tell And the broth, of course, is not merely gone, It has been completely transformed. In the shadow of the dark glass, I see my friend's eyes smile at me. My sister has written this poem As a way to explain something She cannot easily say aloud. After the last stanza, She writes the line "We never lose our past selves." This poem is an Articial Intelligence re-interpretation of "Flesh, Pt 1" by Gordon Haggerty.
French onion soup, art and skill, Cheese on top as I part my lips.
The wind whispers to my skin, It's like it speaks with every breath. As if it has been calling out for my presence, Waiting to see the face behind this mask. So far it has shown nothing but disdain, And I wonder if I have anything left to give. In darkness I wander, With nothing but my memories Falling, falling, falling. Where once I saw light now lies only gloom, And I know that it has gone. For those who wish for rest, I have none Though I'd give up what I have, for one more. But it's too much now, I can't move my hands, I just want to sleep... (My memory, it fades) In the dark, with nothing to grasp, The memories that I hold so dear Fall away from me like they were never there. And I feel as though I will fall into madness, Like the very world is crumbling beneath my feet, That everything is crashing down, I fear I cannot stand the weight. (I'm fading) I just want to sleep... (My memory, it fades) *** I'm afraid I've gone and made a fool out of myself again, I knew you wouldn't understand my reason, And now you're not talking to me at all, You see I didn't mean to let your memory fade, It's like I was being pulled away by another force, Something I didn't mean, something I can't control, I don't even know why I'm still here... I don't know why I'm still here. I should leave this place, I know it's wrong, I shouldn't be here in your mind, I can't help the way that I am, I don't know why I'm Super Mundane, I can't stop feeling so low, I'm afraid it's already too late. I didn't mean to let you slip away, But the thought of losing you just doesn't sit right, To keep you awake and alive, I need you here, I'm not alone, Without you here with me I can't go on, I don't know why I'm Super Mundane, I don't know why I'm still here. I didn't mean to let you slip away, I just can't shake this feeling, That something inside of me is broken, I don't know why I'm Super Mundane, I don't know why I'm still here. This poem is an Articial Intelligence re-interpretation of "Super Mundane" by TheSoftSophist
Towards evening, the island's in silhouette, Dark trees line the beach and the cliffs at water level. Ripples of light ripples shimmer on the sea. Distant whales make a low moan or grunt. Anchor chain groans and creaks from the boat. They sit in silence, then share a long kiss. Beside them the ship rocks gently on the waves. The captain draws a sigh as he drinks his ale. Then down into the darkness, the depths, To where the sharks prowl, where the dolphins swim, Where the whales sing their songs. And the hunters will go to find them. *** Whale hunt, that's what it was about, The whale, the whale. The hunt, the hunt. What did you want? Just something to do. This poem is an Articial Intelligence re-interpretation of "A Handfull of Pennies" by Gordon Haggerty
Phalanx, already made plans with Ahab. Enemies, whales , their emails: 'save as'. Eventually their money exchanges hands, A ribcage cracks, a heart swells so thick. Revenge, already made plans, rain dance, Polearms for the bad man, stained glass. Both man and animal inevitably acquiesce, The old barn will fall upon the sand.
ceaseless, i wait here in my hall of stone. my continuous, meditative, monotonous vigil only broken by the sound of a camera shutter or the scratch of charcoal over rough paper. my silence never ends, since my marble knees do not know the hour when they will straighten and carry me away, nor my spine knows when to crack and unfurl my body tall, higher than the skylight under which i am displayed, nor my dainty dress knows when to settle itself more comfortably over my shoulders. so here i remain, forever more statue than woman. one evening, out of the blue twilight the night guard saunters in, bold and butch and self-assured (her footfalls give her away) without warning, she leans in close, shining her beam in my placid face, and i cannot blink away the yellow light (and never would, just to glimpse once more upon her lovely face) hastily she whispers in my ear, instantly transforming my marble to rose quartz and slowly then, she kisses me, soft and earnest and fleeting and suddenly i am more woman than statue.
Woof, they say, Speech inhumane, They study what they hate, Play games with racists. Beasts, in with the snails: Dharma talks, From a far off mosque. Set those dogs apart, Even if the numbers great. They don't want to talk, Just bark, bark, bark. The dogs that they are.
Meaningless draught, meandering feeling, Bar talk, believe not the sweet whispering, Thinking things talked in the deep darkness, They aught, talk turns to action, They are what they are. Sinking stone, mephitic toad of the ocean floor, What does the heart wish for? Winning wars? Logistic growth? Cathartic revolt? Ownership? Satan, do you hear your kindred souls? Card or cash, is all they know. They see fawns freeze in the snow, and move on, it's things seen from a car. It's part of a laundry list of misgivings, They want what they want, They are what they are.
A wake-up call, A veil must fall, He always spoke in ways of god, Unfortunately he spoke that way a lot. He spoke simply, of knaves and farms, Like he spoke in the name of god. Like the oil on the water, It leaves a glistening wake behind it; Eyes are like the rays of dawn. Flames stream from a mouth; Sparks of fire shoot out the nostrils, Dragon tall, shakes the castle walls. So can you blame them, When they say fuck off? Nothing on earth is its equal, A creature without fear, And it comes for us, The reign of law.
Only a fool around culinary, Food fast, sickness, articulary. Consume, if you only knew, Corn, for which I am forlorn, I can only eat raw foods.
Calamity, their hearts dictate, Failures, insanity, Hecate. A spell long for them: Dreams, but at a gamblers pace, Meaning, but then actors change, TV panel games as passion fades, Children, teen, then move away. Tickets to the gamelan races, They own the stadium. What do they say, of man, Their fates? They rarely change. One could sew sequins into thy face, Meanwhile speak of other races, All they would see is a cage, Call their fathers, seethe in rage. Stallions of grazing, High yields, truncation, Stars in amazement, What feels like salvation? A path of slave labour, Tired people, consumption, That's how I feel. Everyone has their favorite battlefield, Next to their cross with their name. The spell longest for anyone, Man and his grave.