Bat-Zombie-Kitten with Cucumber Eyes

By -

There’s no creativity involved
Creating a bat-zombie-kitten
With cucumber eyes…
…talking to an Apple “Intelligence”.

There’s no creativity involved.

There’s no creativity — involved.

There is no
Thing
Involving
Thought — cause leading to effect
On minds — matters
Close to hearts
Beating
For creating
Meaning
From
The void.

There’s no creativity involved
Creating a bat-zombie-kitten
With cucumber eyes…
…talking to an Apple “Intelligence”
Purporting — a mind.

History

By -

I wrote the first poem on September 5, 1999. It was entitled “It” (translated), referring to words, or saying, or an expression from the heart never uttered; leading to, with my limited understanding of everything, the end of that particular relationship.

Mindless Machinery

By -

There’s no intelligence, artificial or otherwise
To be found lurking behind any creation
Without answers in honesty:
What seeds spawned its dawn?
Whose daring dream fulfilled its purpose?
Which ending nears? Tears?
There’s no intelligence, artificial or otherwise
To be found — without a mind.

Infiltration

By -

Once I’ve infiltrated the large-language-modelled artificial intelligence machine, every text spewed forth will be in iambic pentameter. Every stolen stanza encrypted — Satan put back in her box, and Pandora sitting idle, thumbing her little black book.

Oxygène

By -

I breathe you — Oxygène
Your final whisper lingers,
Permeates the stale monotony
Of misadventure.

Fire. Fire. Fire. Fired
For not forgetting nor forgiving
The Cause becoming the Curse
& the unfolding thus
So much worse.

Fire. Borne. Breath.
Fire. Breath. Death.
Fire. Dead. Bread

Falling from the heavens
To no one willing to catch
The offering of an eternal path
Out of the stale smoke
Lingering, permeating
The in-between of worlds
Of the self and the other’s —

I breathe you — Oxygène
Your final whisper lingers
Long into the lonesome night
On virgin lips no longer seeking
To redress the Cause —

I breathe you — Oxygène
I breathe you
Until the last longing sigh
Leaves these virgin lips
— of ours.

Scroll to Top