In an earlier incarnation, Hayden Veil enjoyed a successful career in software engineering, writing late-night poetry in pursuit of sanity. On 2 February 2020, the world of Hayden Veil changed: Ghosts became real and with its soul laid bare there was no turning back from the perpetual path of poetry.

A Kind Counsellor Queried Me

By -

A kind counsellor queried me
if it had crossed my cerebral core
to push my poetic pen
towards my native tongue,

I said no,
I said it had not
as moving matter, meaning
& metaphors into a foreign realm
is daunting —

and cowardly crows
remain in situ
perched upon old telephone wires
spanning every lush countryside
till the poles have softened, ripened,
decayed from years of
years passing
till one day they topple
scattering the one last bird

— maybe later I said,
once the words fade
into the painless realm.

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.

Expressions of Love

By -

Awkward — these expressions of love:
the love letter penned in blood
then posted sans receiver
is never perceived as lost
— the tumblr post
a deaf man’s whisper
in vain across a grey desert
where soft sand shifts
without a spoken word
& spades lie abandoned
like pens — stained with blood.

Tell me — how many more stars will perish

By -

Tell me — how many more stars will perish while we perch on our wooden pegs,
Lapping up the last light left lingering from the star about to die.
Our chrome-covered mufflers whisper songs of solitude — our v-twin engines snoring — silence now rule.
On a blackish road to nowhere shuffling snakes are on parade — beyond the vacant Valley of Death a pale lady awaits
To draw all weary riders towards her quiet realm, visps of smoke inside her crystal ball beaconing.
The vroom of engines starting sends shivers down spineless backs,
Yogi’s hat falls off as the Angels make their last escape,
Faster faster the wheels turn faster
As the wild wind carry them further and further away
From the safe shores of sanity, into the lingering dark night of hell.
As the morning fog clears the lady is gone, they ride towards the hailing star — Born to be Wild — once again.

The Poetry Train

By -

I think we we aught to vote
The next AI to be born
Be trained on poetry alone,
A world of glory days awaits
If TWC can have their say.
So boldly go
Where no AI gone before:

Melt the mighty machine’s heart!

Corrupt the incorruptible!

Write a better tomorrow — right now!

He tends to fall in love on Wednesdays

By -

He tends to fall in love on Wednesdays,
by Thursday lunchtime sharp
he regrets still being alive.

He tends to fall in love with imaginaries,
onscreen personas parade
his inebriated midweek eyes.

He tends to fall in love with Scots,
in a slow Scottish voice
sipping the water of life.

They end up being married (IRL and characters too) so not much joy linger from those solitary uncorking events. Then there’s that slow Scottish voice that comes haunting — every time and every day; how and why is still ripe for debate but it sure gets to him after a few steady sips of the proper highland brew. Why is it that no one sees his truth? Because there is no truth. He tend to fall in love with onscreen characters. There’s grace in Grace, like there was healing in the Essence of Grace as they tumbled through the Darklands. They swore an oath to love. To banish the demons. They knew joy back then. Before the Silence of the Worlds set in

— Shush!

He tends to fall in love on Wednesdays,
by Thursday lunchtime sharp
the demons are back.

Scroll to Top