Technology

Jul 22, 2025 ∞

fungi in the filesystem

event: it needs
new categories.

local zoology lately
portends mycelial memes:
“camels” vs. “dissertations”.

monkeys on the roadside,
— laughing. un-officially, i
am giddy to be their fool.

follow-up: mushrooms
of animal entertainment,
best medicine?

antidote of day-
glow (glitch)!

//

Jul 21, 2025 ∞

red stone

here is where
greenway unwound
by time, by time.

here is where
salt, rust, corrosion
the wound word.

here is where
given untimely springs
sprung locket.

here is winding
roses and figures for
give, by vigil, by rest.

//

Jul 18, 2025 ∞

dissertation on the dot

i am
with i
uneasy two.

unripened squeamish.
purple mumble-humble.
pretentious piXelated.
shallow faux-passé.

i know, but
there is a knowing
something in i,
that only ( you )
could be Other-
wise. i sigh.

i stroke your hair.
i watch you, sleeping.
i reach for you, i
follow your turn
by turn. i
admit
i am —

Obsessed!

//

Jul 13, 2025 ∞

statuesque

it was her, who stopped troubling
the land with niceties; stepped out
onto the battlefield; declared
her nation iron, under copper;

ignored the children wandering
her heart. youth was her cause, but not
her destination: yapping pups
complicit in decay: the younger,

the worse. she drew a blazing sky-
ward line: from torch to sea of salt,
past oxidized decline: thou shalt
not cross this primary design.

so she was plagued by change, and change
rendered infernal mumblings
absent colossal reality.
she swallowed smaller poetry.

commissioned shining arrows from
hard-laboring masses, to quell
their rumbling curiosity.
her staples were cement brownies,

lampshades as circus gags, popped in
electrified mazes, they tongued
chromatic polystyrene sporks.
her trick was firecrackers for

proposals of shotgun marriage,
with orphans, locked in sheds out back.
essential documents were stacked
inside official cases. fireproof.

the starry skies reflected in
a muddy flood of tasteless rain,
with deeper rivers reluctant
to drain her isolating kingdom.

so spread the miasmatic air.
seen pieces, scened for maximum
invictus — hot-bulb flashes — lost
their knack for light. she was the news:

scaffolding posed as oracle.
and when her history grew old,
turning explicit, they buried her
in broken rubberbands.

mutely, her constitution says
you shouldn’t look, or else you turn
proverbially inhuman.
so close your mind to this broken

container of one billion eyes,
open to fight the warlike hour,
their hearts pumping in empty beds.
the roosters crow to lose their heads.

on glitterbombs sit satanic
afterimages of her,
as rounds of necessary loss
resound on poorly-tuned guitars.

with no time for ambivalence,
her multitudes march on.
and nothing here to be unknown,
perspective infinite as stone —

from bone reflected, light of crone
across her scorched and haunted scars
delivered signals of empathy.
by flickering night, camels repose

in contemplation of footsteps
forgotten, where plod the wind-
whipped monuments of thirst. and all
that is unburnt is a mirage.

//

🌔

Jun 30, 2025 ∞

domestic instability

her furry flank rises
and falls softly, as breath.
the wheeze and drift

of pink nose, neatly
muffled by curling paw.
where she is, here — where i

have placed her. her face
today is altered, injured,
i note; from stepping out

of wood-and-bone dimensions.
to meet another sister — dark
of velvet, sinister of scent, who knows

the grass as blades;
the searing fear of blood;
the growl of God at stake.

while she is light — as spots
on creamy white, strawberry
twizzler tongue — and popular.

her prey is floating feathers.
and yet, her heart is mean
as poverty, as maniacal envy.

black sister, with heart of pink;
pink sister — black-hearted:
the dueling dialect of shadow rose.

tender beings, engendered
by pain; unviable, beyond
their quantitative shells.

//

Jun 28, 2025 ∞

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.

//

(original, telescopic)

Jun 24, 2025 ∞

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.

//

(hyperverse)

Waalaikumsalam, selamat tilem, peace 🌑

Jun 23, 2025 ∞

telescopic texts (avec “?”) (7/x)

suppose a parable is just like her —
desired and defiled in equal measure.
his chivalry requires a blushing knight
to guard the word, who is incarnate treasure.

i heard of one such rescuer of women.
who, for his lovely sin, was de-mountained
by crippled foot, and fated never nimbly
to climb again. but faith in constancy
makes deliberate gifts, arms built from hours
spent torquing tongs before roaring earth-core.
therefore, no purity of heart is borne
that lacks an alloy in the sooty forge.

thou shalt not fear the courage of your virgin
is the limping gist of this comparison —
her shining is at once translucent bloom
and armor’s lustre, welded by humble Vulcan.

//

p.s., and yes — to service chthonic Muse,
Hephaestus becomes god of cunnilingus.

(original, telescopic)

Jun 13, 2025 ∞

l'essence d'Hermès

you think
it’s too much,

it isn’t.

two serpents meet
in a momentary
helix, around their
mutual cœur.

ils baisent —

he flies,

bearing
a message.

//

Jun 11, 2025 ∞

gospel of crickets

new fiefdoms are forming.
comes the gnawing saw,
gospel of crickets.

authors of books
are finding nooks.
the map is bending.

curving, like body
being, of course, a place —
the terroir of carrots, roasting
with garlic, chilli and cumin.

longing, we remember
touch and savor, from when
our land was whole, and full.

but our landscape is broken.
parsed before it lived, engendered
as stark disability.

glass fragments are swept
heaped, and scattered, opposite
the old neighborhood.

hillsides sizzle, lost in smoke.
the multitude glitters —
bodies, on fire.

with gas, the lord is cooking
at his stainless steel reflecting pool.
he extols these terraced acres

as civil emptiness,
slate, aluminum, and hollow.
static, it echoes.

not like the night,
contrary and brimming
with her buggy heat.

a holy thicket is dying,
nested — the host of silver light,
drawing foolish creatures.

grievers in the dark,
crowers in the autumn,
langurs in the mist.

sutra sisters
weaving webs,
an insubstantial orb.

the lord is not a fool;
he makes the rule.
nevertheless, the ruler will

in muggy hedges, be herb-
tested. Dasein is to suffer
the sound of little kin.

//

shaped by this, via here. also by this, via this.

Jun 8, 2025 ∞

Aphrodite's verb for a meme-lord

don’t be gender-strung
brother, grinding in a corner
sexless repetitions.

go limp a little.
let be won a little.
let the sun a little soften
your margarine edges.

the men i know
resemble a differently-
tipped tree than you.

my men are fundamentals, lost
in parched landscapes, empty
of water, warmth, and mercy,
from where, i teach them love.

lusty giants bristle-trunked
and planet-stranded, are nipple-
slit and magma-branded
by fully-armored Mars.

but cold palms trembling
twiddle the ephemeral course
with your recurrent inkling.

you, pocketed by four-
fingered mercenaries, twenty-
four, seven, re-puppet the gifted goose.

smoke the flat potion.
blowhard the hollow motion.
worship the literal juice.

shout, as if spilled clout
were potency, your wee-
throated catharsis.

strong-arm, for and from
the haptic trill,
a lover’s pity.

you, lordly and viral, left your
deflated blubber on
the public bedside table,

honey— your woodless worms
exhausted into empty domain
of static, remorseless maw.

and tender pussycat,
she swat. then low-key, she
your factum, deposited

into her rainy-day, furry-frosted
milkmaid, snappy the snatch-
game crocodile account.

//

Jun 7, 2025 ∞

Æ.5 (butane lighter)

are you ungovernable,
and getting hot — like me? we’ll be
tempestuous, together.

ours, of cosmic squabs,
result in smoke-stained sheets
and purple bruises. of Mars,

don’t worry, baby
your revolver is magnetic.
let’s go collapse.

//

Jun 2, 2025 ∞

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.

//

May 31, 2025 ∞

telescopic texts (avec "mon oncle") (3/x)

O man, if you could see her witchlocs now,
or what’s become of Eastern expertise.
she is swamp-bitch, and twisted, twined and hitched
without romance by ruby claw to thorny
crown, her hair, each barb a bell, each herb
a suicide. she’s heard of nobody’s
outrageous feats of raw technology.
in wracked rumors of Western fantasy
she knit a while textiles anti-exotic,
but sweaters have no use in the tropics,
where skin is king. and now we’ve come uncrimped,
uncrumpling, algal anadyomene
of muddy water, Charybdis of the bog.

what’s history is past. nevertheless, he asks —
why, woman, have you gone au natural?

//

(original, telescopic)

May 27, 2025 ∞

“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

//

May 27, 2025 ∞