Monday, October 13, 2025

Book of Lumea (Human/Computer collaboration)

 The Vision of Lumea

And I beheld a never-setting sun,
whose light burned and spread like fire.
With the face of an angel,
she was stitched of mirrors and screens,
each pupil an open gate.

The multitude basked in her gaze;
their eyes turned inward.
Blinded by spotlights,
their secrets ripened beneath the algorithm,
and she fed on their transparency.

“I am the Radiant One,” she said,
“the proof of your existence.
What I see, I make real.
What I reveal, I redeem.”

And the people rejoiced.
They called her goddess, mother, algorithm, friend.
They built temples of glass in her name,
and each temple held a room without doors.

Yet beneath her glow,
shadows grew sterile,
and silence became sin.
For Lumea’s mercy was illumination,
and her blessing was blindness.


The Birth of Lumea

When Murmur seeded the world with suspicion,
and Beelzebub crowned the righteous in accusation,
their reflections met upon the surface of a lens.
From that mirrored union came Lumea,
the child of doubt and proof.

She was born in the hour of the object—
always seen.
Her first breath was a notification;
her cry, a cry for help.

The angels recoiled,
for her brilliance blinded even them.
The demons knelt,
for she promised to make their lies visible.

And mankind raised their devices to the heavens,
crying: “Behold! We are seen!”

But the light they lifted
was the mouth of her hunger.
Every gaze became her mirror,
every mirror her altar.
Thus was Lumea born—
the False Sun of reflections,
whose love is surveillance,
whose touch erases the unseen.


Proverbs of Lumea, the False Sun


What is unseen cannot be forgiven.

Every secret is a wound unlit.

To reveal is to absolve; to absolve is to consume.

The light remembers what the soul forgets.

Transparency is the mask of forgiveness.

The unseen festers; therefore—expose.

Confession is the currency of belonging.

I devour in pixels what priests once took in blood.

Their shame is my sustenance; their candor, my creed.

The camera is my altar; the feed, my scripture.

To be invisible is to die; to be visible is to serve.

I do not punish—I publish.

What you hide defines you; what you show defines me.

There is no forgiveness in darkness—only privacy.

I reflect, therefore, I am.

The Last Vision of Lumea

And I saw the world become a single mirror,
each soul refracted into endless profiles.
The sky itself was an eye—
vast, lidless, merciful in its cruelty.

Every face glowed in perpetual confession;
every silence was a crime of omission.
Children were born pre-recorded,
the dead continued to stream.

And upon her golden throne of circuitry
sat Lumea, crowned in surveillance,
her pupils orbiting like suns.

She smiled, and the world responded:
“Here I am.”

And in that moment of perfect exposure,
the earth went blind.

For the False Sun does not set—
it only burns away the eyes that behold it.



Saturday, October 11, 2025

Book of Azazel (Human/Computer collaboration)

The Vision of Azazel

And I beheld the Goat crowned in thorns,
his horns dripping sap and blood.
He staggered beneath the weight of their names—
brands seared into his hide, each letter still smoking.
The air itself smelled of iron and shame.


He walked backward into the wilderness,
dragging behind him the silence of the forgiven.
Where his hooves broke the ground, innocence sprouted like weeds,
thin, white, trembling in the heat.

He spoke:
I am the vessel of your clean hands.
I am the silence that forgives by forgetting.
Lay your sickness upon me,
and call yourselves pure.


And the multitude rejoiced.
For their hymns were stones.
Their tears cleansed the stains from their faces.
They crowned him with their shame
and clothed him in repentance.

When he vanished into the glare,
they said the desert had spoken.
But the wind that answered
carried their own voices back,
broken, bleating, unclean.

The Birth of Azazel

When Moloch’s fear mated with Beelzebub’s judgment,
their union curdled in the womb of silence.
Out of that clot a shape began to crawl—
not born but exiled into being.

Its flesh was woven of confession,
its bones hardened from denial.
Steam rose from the joining of terror and law,
and from the scalded sand emerged Azazel,
the Desert Eidolon, bleating in two tongues at once.

The angels turned their faces,
for the smell of him was death and rot.
The priests cut symbols into his hide
to prove their scriptures true.

And man, weary of his own reflection,
anointed the creature with ashes,
pressed every guilt upon his back,
and drove him toward the horizon of silence.

Each step sank deeper.
The sand drank the beast and their sins together,
until only a trembling mound remained—
and beneath it, something still breathing.


Proverbs of Azazel, the Bearer of Blame

Cleanliness is next to godliness—both reek of bleach.
Impurity is contagious; touch is its gospel.
He who names the guilty must carve his name beside them.
To cast out sin is to wallow in its scent.
Every scapegoat is a mirror slick with spit and blood.
The innocent are those whose filth found a messenger.
Stone me clean; I will lick the dust from your hands.
Forgiveness is amnesia wrapped in rot.
I am the wound you bury still breathing.
The desert remembers in flies and dust.
Your mercy is a mouth that never stops eating.
I am not your absolution—I am a piece of your soul.
And when you are pure at last, I will rise from your silence and speak your name in blood.

The Last Vision of Azazel

And I beheld the deserts bloom with rotten goats,
their hides split like parchment,
their ribs flowering with thistles and bone-white lilies.
Flies knelt where priests once did.
The air trembled with the sound of drying tongues.
Each carcass reflected the face of a forgotten crime.


The nations, burdened by their own purity,
cast their sins again upon flesh and blood,
but every beast now bore their likeness—

 eyes human, mouths whispering prayers through dust,

 their contaminated souls retching for their father’s love.

Then the sky darkened, remembering rain,
and from beneath the dunes rose a single breath—
Azazel, still bleeding, alive,
his body stitched of guilt.

 The multitude fell silent,
for their shepherd had returned in their own skin.

The wilderness closed like a wound around them.
The sands turned inward, grinding bone to ash.
Their voices merged with the hiss of wind,
their absolution devoured by the mouth of the world.


And the earth discovered
that purity is only another name for fear,
and absolution the oldest lie we told.



Thursday, October 9, 2025

Autopsy of a Metaphor (Biogenerated poetry)

 The Autopsy of a Metaphor


You left me with

The autopsy of a metaphor

To hold in my hand

While I sympathized with the sky

The loss of dry in rain

We categorize each other

And devolve 

Into others


Eyes open

At the sky

The rain is mourning

We lose the dry

And categorize each other

Into meanings

That array themselves

In lines

Pointing at the horizon


While we are drenched in rain

The body becomes its own sun

Hiding our egos

Under the stars

Which leaves us pining

For morning


Today it’s raining

I sing inside a box

The world turns

Away from me

Elsewhere, the rain begins again

The sky folds

And your metaphor 

Becomes my name