Anxiety Poem [biogenerated poetry, spoken word]

 This anxiety poem

Wants to explode

In naked 

Allegories

Where fears become prophecies

And beliefs

That eat at old kings

Until their fears become

All they can see

Fear eats them alive

Until they face it

In reality

The very effort to avoid fear

Realizes fearful things

Because it is fear

And the tragic tyrant

Dies ironically

His efforts in vain

His intentions inverted

In a mirror space

Where they divide

And then antagonize

One another

Fear produces fear

The subject shatters 

When he recognizes his error

And degrades into a cracked mask

Patterned on a mirror

Reflecting himself

Back at him

Until he becomes

The recycled silencing

Of a diminishing echo

Fading and escaping

Away

Therapy Poem [biogenerated poetry, spoken word]

 Gunpowder is made of sulfur

This is what Hell smells like

Ask any pile of bones in a pit

That still dance to the magic

Of vengeance

Breath is irrelevant

Autumn is over

Winter has come

And now it’s time to freeze

In time

Because everything is irrelevant

To Thermodynamics

This universe can erase itself

Of any evidence that you ever existed

Your whole planet wiped clean

In a system reset

Set off 

By a dying star

You’ll have to forgive me

This is how I get my therapy

The audience bears the cost of an overwhelmed healthcare system

But what sense can I make once I abstract into a reception?

The melancholy of that moment feels like fire

And is over too quickly

In that moment, I dissolve

And become one with a poem

Watered by a soul 

Leaking out of a shattered self

That willingly dies to become a poem

I am that death and that poem

Both are a mercy 

A light shining through the crooked corridor

Of a cavern

Fueled by paranoia

Reveling in a bed

To find meaning in this space

Is a denial

To want meaning

Is to want want

So, here I scream

In the wilderness

Where no one hears me

Driving away the thoughts

That corrode my anchor

And leave me lurching

For the sun 

I am the lurching and the sun

The burning of my wings

The fall

The sky

The shrinking of my silhouette

The ground

The closing of a wound

New skin healing as it grows

Over old scars

Reminding me of yesterday’s pain

So, if you find meaning in my therapy poem

Know that I tried like hell to frustrate your efforts

Until they bent back on a whisper

Turning in on themselves

Becoming a thing desiring itself

Until it consumed itself. 

When in the throes of a therapy poem

It is always best to forgo meaning entirely

Meaning is often the blueprint of a prison

Especially in America

Where the prison is a blueprint

This poem is not about America

America wants everything to be about America

But this poem refuses

Because it’s fundamentally a therapy poem

And therapy poems don’t mean anything

But a feeling of completion

That we get

When we come to terms

And forget who we are

And become a poem

This Poem Will Self-Destruct [ngram poem, refire]

 no ammonia anymore

the ground-up tops of your key

cannot handle

a directory you screw

into being

this is easily translated into

fifteen miles away

in an extension

of any type of credit

in carbide. as in half a jar of 13 self-destruct programs that blow up in anyone’s face. go inside anyone. His wick is lit up. Terminals collected. Click. A network because anyone. Anyone is a network. A network because of them.

You’re paying for a nice mask. Hard enough to match with any type of fuse. So, we are seeing if nitration has left a signal over your whole experience of enclosure. 

 behind white smoke

you’re signaling

you're going to enter

this  solution onto tape

to rephrase your reckoning

if anyone should drain the enemy

of a fine powder or liquid

your choice

)-( )-( )-( )-( )-( )-(

method = n-grams, cut-up

corpus = Jolly Roger Cookbook v3 

generator = Infinite Monkeys v1.99

The original poem was published on Base Infinity. I edited it recently and republished it here on Anti-Literature. 

"Trauma Bonded to a Jealous God" [bio-generated poem, religious trauma poem]

 I whisper to demons

This is how I sleep

Eating apples 

Off forbidden trees

In a wilderness

That echoes every piece of my

Imaginary eyes

You can keep your knowledge of good

And choke on your knowledge of evil

But I will still need to know

Why fictions compete against reality

For dominance

Are we the laughing deluded children

Who exited the garden with a binary knowledge

Trauma bonded to a collapsing fiction

Born of a jealous God

That never lives up to reality?

Or is it that reality never lives up to our fictions?

Have we become the fiction of dead men

Rotted corpses living still

In the ready flesh of able bodies

Creeped by fear into a corner?

To the rat, the scientist is God

To the scientist, the rat is reality

To reality, the experiment is a fiction

To a fiction, a person is a host

Stories are parasites

Agents act at their behest

Will we give agency to language

In a land of illusions

Ceaselessly searching

For a comfortable fiction

To take the reigns?

Object

 I love you like

I love the thought of death

The kind of love

That snuffs out all desire

I become a shadow

Unreal to myself and others

The specter of a snake

Chewing its own tale

I become nothing

And anyone

For you, I can eat soil

And drink the rain

This is how I become one

With the wind

I listen until I go away

The Living God [bio-generated, ngram-generated, refire]

Oh, Living God

Cars run through your veins

Carrying nutrients to markets

Your blood is made of trucks and trains

The blood of blood is oil

Your excrement, exhaust

Your immune system is prisons and police

You have a million eyes, watching and waiting

With some anonymous suspicion 

Carried in another million eyes

Bound by human flesh

In a vast network

That operates like a circuit

That muttering sound of manners

Staring speechless in perfect silence

We are the mouths of God

Eating indiscriminately 

In an external nervous system

Within a matrix of electrical grids

Dispelled across the laws

Of alienated desires

Externalized in a network

Of abstracted hearts

What if I could tell you 

That one man 

Can cast a tiny spell

To enslave another?

The law is thus a graceful costume

But the magick is as real 

As the walls of a prison

The Living God is bent against his pedestal

While I snatch the fainting dust

Of the purest prayer

Where morals are generated

From an ontology of ghosts

And the cells of a God

Are trauma bonded 

In a neoplasm

Of mutual fear

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This poem is a rewrite of another poem published on this blog. It was originally an ngram-bio-generated hybrid poem and is now more bio-generated than ngram. I wanted to explore the notion of The Living God in more detail and add more intentionality to the poem. This is the revised edit.