The Book of the Martyr (Human/Computer collaboration)

 “The Vision of the Martyr”

And I beheld, the Martyr clothed in lilies,
whose crown was a thorned wreath,
whose throne was a pulpit raised on bones.

He names himself Savior,
yet his wrists are banners,
his blood a veil.

The multitude bend their knees,
not to heal, but to inherit.

They drink his cup,
The cup of a conqueror

they eat his bread,
but the bread is the body.

He whispers: I died for you,
yet his death is a mask white fetters,
his sacrifice a ledger of chains.

For every lash he bears,
a darker lash is hidden.
For every thorn he wears,
a stranger is crowned in silence.
His gospel is a mirror of empire:
mercy on the tongue,
iron in the hand.

And the nation that marches in his name,
is blinded by whiteness,
their hymns are a smoke that chokes the earth,
their prayers a lash across the stranger’s back.

I saw their churches rise like battlements,
their altars fed on jealousy,
their pulpits thundering conquest as gospel.

And the Martyr smiled,
for his wounds were masks,
his thorned heart repressed empathy.

Thus the Martyr endured,
not to redeem but to disguise,
not to save but to sanctify—
and the multitude worshipped the mask,
and called their chains eternal.

Proverbs of the Martyr

The nail that binds me is sharper in your hand.
Every chain I wear is a crown you inherit.
To pity is to destroy.
My wounds are windows, but only the conqueror looks through.
The mask redeems nothing, but it sanctifies everything.
Empathy sharpened is law; compassion elevated is conquest.
The stranger’s back is my parchment; their scars, my gospel.
Those who kneel before me stand tallest in dominion.
Salvation is the leash by which nations are yoked.
What I sanctify, none may question; what I disguise, all will obey.
The holiest word is the one that erases another’s name.

The Apocalypse of the Martyr

And I saw the veil torn from his face,
and the mask fell away like ash.
 

The nations gasped,
for the wounds they worshipped
were wounds they themselves had carved.

The cup spilled not wine but blood,
the bread turned not to flesh but famine.
His cross towered; it was a gallows,
his crown burned as a brand upon strangers.

The churches cracked like tombs,
their hymns dissolved into smoke,
their pulpits thundered with silence.

And the Martyr rose,
but his rising was ruin,
his glory a shroud of conquest.

The Martyr stretched his arms,

the nations contracted,

the whole world had fallen

under a single sign—

a cross of whitened bone,

a mask without a face,

a tomb mistaken for eternity.

The Martyrer (Human/Computer collaboration)

the martyrer (revised, 2025)

come with me, as you are — the open wound of morning
screens burn like votive suns, the martyrs scroll, they double-tap their names
dyscopic eyes, the silence in the star-martyr’s song
now amplified by a thousand quiet hospitals
windows stacked with beds and white-noise prayers
we counted breath in sockets, then the sockets closed

shooting stars between the rain, the echo:
a map of ash and service alerts, red pins on coastlines
the famine of summer follows the flood’s second mouth
old maps sell for nothing in the currency of drowned towns

soldiers kneel in ruined airports, drones circle like new apostles
the sky writes treaties in contrails, then erases them with fire
children cross borders with their names sewn into their sleeves
war itself baptizes them in smoke, ordains them in silence

the pimp, the christ, the priest on livestream
the merchant with a ledger for lungs, the judge who tweets mercy
our children packaged as notices: missing, displaced, unclaimed

inverted martyr, the punisher of evil has always been a machine
measuring grief that auctions it back as spectacle
you get owned on your needs and pray into the comment field
your penitence becomes a product, your grief a trending hashtag

we baptize one another in the ruins, naming the dead
we braid our vows with cables, vow them to iron
bring your empty pockets, your unreturned prayers
let us burn the ledgers and stitch the maps back to flesh
let our martyrs be the last religion we practice
our last god of shame.

The Book of Artibund (Human/Computer collaboration)

 The Vision of Artibund

And I beheld a hand that was not a hand,
a grasp without fingers,
moving without flesh.

He crowned himself in absence,
his throne was the ratio,
his altar the market’s breath.

He spoke no word,
yet all tongues bent toward him.
He wrote no law,
yet every contract bore his seal.

And the multitude moved under his spell,
though none had seen his face.
They built their cities atop his foundation,
measured their lives by his whisper.

Artibund, Lord of Merchants,
the Bundler of Appetites.
What Yodabund scorned, he adored;
what Mammon priced, he valued.
Desire became number,
number became law,
and law became motion.

My gift is a debt unseen.
The market is the altar that prays itself.
Your hunger is collateral;
What is free, I seize by ratio.
What is priceless, I sell in shadows.
I bind no one, yet all are bound to me.
I command no one, yet all obey.

And I saw nations dance like marionettes,
their strings braided from ledgers,
their steps counted in invisible coin.
The poor sold tomorrow,
while the rich bought eternity,
and all alike moved in the rhythm of his hands.

The angels wept,
for they could not find the buyer of souls;
the demons laughed,
for every bargain was already struck.

And the people rejoiced,
for they mistook his moral silence for freedom.
The freedom was his leash,
and the leash was endless.

Thus appeared Artibund,

the Invisible Hand,

who writes no scripture,

yet his songs are sung

from the grave.

Proverbs of Artibund, the Invisible Hand

The gift unseen is the chain most binding.
What is free is only a price deferred.
To measure value is to erase worth.
Every hunger is a debt unpaid.
Markets are prayers spoken without tongues.
Debt is the true scripture, written in silence.
I am not named, yet my ratio governs all names.
To rejoice in freedom is to polish the leash.
The poor sell tomorrow; the rich mortgage eternity.
My silence is law, my absence a covenant.
The grave itself pays tithe to my hand.

The Tombworld of Artibund

And I beheld a world of stone ledgers,
each grave a balance sheet,
each epitaph a contract.

The poor were buried in promissory notes,
the rich in poor,
yet all alike slept
beneath his ratios.

For Artibund, Lord of Merchants,
had built his kingdom not of cities,
but of tombs.
Not of voices,
but of echoes priced and sold.

And he spoke through the silence:

Your bones are my collateral.
Your names are my currency.
I lend you death at interest,
and repossess eternity.

I saw nations sink into vaults of dust,
their flags appraised like jewelry,
their laws engraved as footnotes
on the stones of the dead.

The angels fled,
for their hymns could not be purchased.
The demons bowed,
for every shadow haunted
the bottom line.

And the multitude rejoiced,
thinking themselves free,
but the ground beneath them
was undersigned by Artibund.

And the dust itself was counted,
every grain a coin,
every silence a debt—
all settled in bankruptcy.