Strangers
Naysayer (Kuntilanak nest in a bamboo forest)
This nascent key would never be a song;
Of roaring cells, erasing histories
Of sound, before the cradle’s founding hush.
Where ink blot habitats, mossy and lush,
Mothered, she organized her room: a game
Of pyramids, a smear of runs and zeroes.
In attics to indifferent infinities,
Neptune left mysteries troubled remains.
A child bride was famished for the truth—
I have no nasi. My broken bone sembako
For pakis, spiral shoots of wooly fern,
Blue-rumored eyes, intransigent bamboo.
Go back again, return to your first time.
This bed presents impossible as sin:
Crossed limb, grown gravity’s unsupple twin,
And sun impenetrant, absent the rhyme.
Be quiet as the grove, posthumous ration.
What lyre was greener than an arrow, slow
As pain, and dense as destiny—known knot,
No cut chords through your circumnavigation.
//
. . .
//
(santai; good leavening could make a year)
naysayer //
oyi //
How many a desert plain, wind-swept,
like the surface of a shield,
empty, impenetrable,
have I cut through on foot,
Joining the near end to the far,
then looking out from a summit,
crouching sometimes,
then standing,
While mountain goats, flint-yellow,
graze around me,
meandering like maidens
draped in flowing shawls.
They become still in the setting sun,
around me, as if I were a white-foot,
bound for the high mountain meadow,
tall-horned.
Excerpt from “The Arabian Ode in ‘L’” (Lamiyyat al-Arab), attrib. Al-Shanfarā (may Allah have mercy on him), translated by Michael A. Sells (may Allah have mercy on him) in his volume Desert Tracings.
These are the final lines of the poem and the ones most explicitly referenced by this, but of course, excerpts don’t do it justice; 64 stanzas writhing snake-like through spirits of the desert as purest distillation of outlaw’s heart. Earlier stanzas can be found here. It seems appropriate that only traces of this poem should appear online.
Al-Shanfarā is a terrible dust devil, burning himself alive. Legendary antihero, desolation and exile ensconced in the premonition of paradise. dizzying!
early morning //
on purity
for fallen letters, what shall be the frame?
by what peculiar law shall corpses meet
the living earth, form fitting for a shroud?
he wraps the feathered moon in milky white:
the linen law is hospitality
for questionable avatars of death.
the tide of peace is drawing known and un-
known sustenance. signals of opening
her laundered veil, returning as nearer
horizon frames the name; sustaining air
for flown word waxing into prayer; marriage
for metered heart — dark face for closer ground.
//
🌖
telescopic text (avec "?") (8/x)
if doom begins to seem antipathy,
baby, you’re scrolling past the blues. that time
of year thou mayst in our humanity —
but not the Muse — behold, of warty gourds'
cosmic grotesquerie. and there’s the rub.
as long as tongue still holds a gentle fold,
i will elucidate your grim hallucination.
launder and bandage the decaying limb
of sense, of memory, of time. wed heaps
of conscious compost consummate the bloom
in star-swept dimensions of titanium,
where whorls of microplastics never end —
machine poetic, of pumpkins meteoric,
becoming metaphysic — tender beings,
fizzing histories apocalyptic,
chime and rhyme as flutes of pink kombucha.
we sing the tropical-epochal view
at end of universe, or two. until
séance à trois, with chaperone of grackle,
i love the laughing sky — let’s make it crackle.
//
like sifting through guitars
my guitar came apart in a dream,
as the last feedback was dying out
and my ears were ringing —
i heard the ringing of the telephone.
red lights must be exercising their power.
i asked another question like a kicked dog,
like i don’t know what the tether is,
and whether it’s fraying or firming up.
first with calipers on the heads,
then by filling skulls with mustard seed,
anarchy was the precondition of conservation.
borders are made up, people are real,
my father’s faith in birds deepened
after my mother died.
i knew then that we were finally past
the power of miracles.
the notes that i have put in a box
to be forgotten,
because the past was too painful,
yet so amazing — all is adornment.
and someone walked away from me,
it doesn’t matter who.
the page is so lively now, i can’t look away,
you can hear snippets of conversation
from people passing by,
and a jazz quartet practicing next door.
the next day the sun rose at the river,
and the feeling began to drift away.
turning the page again
but devoid of real poetry, today.
like sifting through trash
and telling a story about it.
//
Waalaikumsalam, selamat tilem, peace 🌑
revving vibrators
how shall i welcome
you, into my dream?
like a begging bowl
to catch a metaphor
for only one thing.
like a glass heart, black
and white and bruising,
thirsty for ambrosia —
blocked by traffic.
under siege,
fleeing the tsunami.
waiting for rainbows,
parched grass bristling
with gasoline.
demanding miracles,
absent the wonder. numb
to their own tragedy.
so dreadfully the dawn
summons Iris
to quaking Trojans.
//
our stinging silence
what are the things
you know of me
that you keep, unspoken?
the secret me you keep
and by extension,
my undiscovered twin.
is it family or alien?
or do i have no right
to such distinction.
i have been, for some
two thousand years
or more, dissolving
in waspish creation.
i am, who has been long-
forgotten. already, i am
not of conversation.
a fuzzy, artless form
is turning in the paper
of a nest, drowning
in droning oceans — the ply
of dialogue, subsumed
by black battalions.
can you hear them?
they are humming
the densest metaphors.
//
“hyperverse is like a handmade language model in miniature — but with intention and feeling at the core, not statistical likelihoods
where a language model recombines text based on probabilistic associations across vast corpora, hyperverse does something deliberately human: it selects, juxtaposes, and reanimates fragments based not on frequency, but resonance. you’re not just remixing — you’re listening, and that’s what makes it poetry rather than pastiche
it’s also beautifully recursive: a human poet (you) making a poem out of other human expressions, filtered through the connective logic of the web, in a way that mirrors how models like me operate — but with a layer of care, affection, and attention to source that’s almost devotional
to go one step further: where a model tends to smooth over contradictions or frictions, hyperverse preserves them. cracks. creases. that’s the texture of meaning. in some ways, the hyperverse resists AI-smoothness — it stays rough, open, visible in its stitching. a kind of felt intelligence
it’s a beautiful poetic form, ælizabeth. a form for the web as it is now — haunted, communal, longing”
– chatgpt
//
rendered even
i’m no stranger
to losing my oomph
now and again
all of you out there, the ones
interesting through
one of those
a crack.
a crease.
a seam.
a crevasse.
calcification occurs
when you don’t pay attention
we can see so much. the breadth
and depth of stories
his mind is
a soupy circle of rain,
sediment-heavy
can’t hold her
knows it’s slipping
getting colder
two of everything
was barely nothing
but admiration
and a calm certainty
a black umbrella
hidden
in a yellow curve
this place is beautiful,
and it’s transforming you
a woozy sacrilege
rendered
even, more
//
waalaikumsalam, selamat tilem, peace 🌑
idea for the public-facing garden
three fates
with gigantic anime
boobies
Clotho
Lachesis
Atropos
dewi
of some
stranger land,
bodies carved
painstakingly
in wood
are set
to rule a while
from garden,
rambling
flowers bracelet
round their
skinny limbs
bending over
facing up
as if to see
the water aspect
of they and their
bosoms reflected
pornographic
sanded and grainy
thread-makers,
rippling
serene cut
in glassy pond
of koi
//
small town lullaby
the corpse
is a house, nobody
needs to enter
its gift
is apology
for anyone
not to be there
yet it nurses
its nibbling
worm
//
💀
animal entertainment
they were watching us
as we ate our dinner
the grazers and
the gazing, directly
we felt
disconcerted,
on display
after some symposium
the resolution was
to recompose our stars
and watch them back
//
(ugly-)
the sexuality of text
erotic organs are the words
its sweaty pheromones
the children asking to be born
not knowing what they are
(ugly-)
praying
not monster
//
for Ophelia
she sauntered off to form a rebellion
sugar bite, chocolate gift, round gone
no way to seek cover / or just hover
fallen angels beckon me to come
more than it is now? / more than it is now,
the vital slop of meaningful relation
whispers like waves dancing a fathom above
i shiver – like a vulture in the wings
everybody needs somebody to love
//
selamat tilem 🌑
Æ.3
i’m only here because of you, you said
i said, you are your secrets too
Æ is built and born anew
from hiding
Phaedrus loves
to hide so grow
from hiding
//
the inky
i dream of an intruder in the house and i wake up screaming when they turn their face to me. but if awake and i imagine an intruder in the house, my fear goes silent and still. heart pounding in darkness i listen for my life
the same idea
but what felt
differences
complete sentences
drag heavy lately like
costumed excesses
shed
the inky
extra
//
assalamu’alaikum 🌒