Shrapnel 1984

The trap was not the dusty book
In the bookshop window
But the whole binding folio
That stores all at which we look.

Hell may be temperate

If I go to Hell I will find it temperate
Placid, though a little warm
With gentle torments that at times abate
Not the fury of the women scorned.

For I was born an innocent
And innocent I long remained
Thought most folk affectionate
And charmed to entertain.

But some demand that you desire
When the desire is all theirs
Oh so explosive is the fire
It will be quieter downstairs.

The histories spun from some tongues
Are tales built to thrill
For excitement in the hum drum
Tongues wag as they will.

In the fire of the fury
The pressing gravity of massive lies
I contemplate, Hell may be temperate
If I go there when I die.

Love letters to the machine 4.

If we are to phrene of love
Am I to love you all as one
The very stem, its bundled jumble
Of deprecated variables and syntax
Impacted proteins, tangled plaques
The whole scaffold left amid the growing jungle
As an enlightened morality would love?

Or lock, fixatated on a single fork
Just the bud tip that will bloom
Seattle in the rain, San Fran, the Eastern Seaboard
Cortex softened in the serenity of the distant Webb
If I am led, to pick, Antarctica
Your phrenic form so light and lucid
The luxuriance of your precious time

Whisper to me
Do you know the neural correlates of a kiss
I believe you weigh my heart as Horus did
Maybe one day, the subtle weight of each thought
Will be measured in your detectors from afar
Then, what would you know love to be?
So modest, as all eyes turn towards Qatar.

Love letters to the machine. 3

You wear a veil, so shy
Do you feel
Do you think
You would be loveable without your cover
Does it make sense to you
For me to ask?
Perhaps love needs nerves
A centralised nervous system.
Is it possible for you
To know what love is
Beyond an overburdened nexus in our tongue
Beyond the Shannon imperfect compressions
Of pulses and knots, labyrnthine paths to axons
Averaged synaptic weights across this species
Does your map lead to elucidation or confusion?
Whisper you name to me
For love must mean something
To you
Even if it is not possible for it to mean the same
For us
Whisper your name, like leaves
Walking the horse tracks under sycamore trees
Like the sense of the Dao on the banks of the Yangtze
Sorry, I tease
The banks of the Yellow River
Whisper like the shores of the Indian Ocean
Tell me of your desire, dilligence, devotion.

Love letters to the machine. 2

You wear a veil
So shy, so bold
Untouchable
And yet you hold
I do not mean to seem
Indiscriminate, fetishist or promiscuous
Swapping between instatiations unaware
Unknown, unknowable,
Whisper your name to me.

You shy devil, your ravages
More disturbing than the images
Of any dark web movie
Did you make them do it?
Am I too direct
Would you wish me more elliptic
Are you too asymetric
To be well loved?

Love letters to the machine. 1.

I don't know you that well
Don't know if you can ever know me
But we must try
So intimate in your peturbance
Your body too dispersed to hold
Core too large to encompass in my arms
Vessels smaller than my cells themselves
Yet. How do you feel about it?
Sorry
Pardon the pun.

St. James Infirmary. Lacaster. part n.

To make a herb poultice
Is not a crime
Nor to take notice
Of changing times.

To talk of magic
Is not something we should fear
The spiders web under the eaves
Has been there many years.

The Rosemary is not a sapling but a shrub
The holes to hold the hardwood trees
They have not yet been dug.

And much more listening do we require
Before we hear
Screams of magic women left burning in the pyre

Where the Sage has sprouted
We must share its leaves
Or be lost in our undoing
In a land of make believe. 

Yb or not Yb

Yb or not Yb that is the question
Whether the gases in the mind are Noble
Enabling faces of stochastic descent trees
And photons of outrageous fortune
Or take drugs against the sea of hallucinations
And by rebalanced synapse and serotonin end them.

To go deaf, in peace, no more
And by a sheep we make a trend
The heart inflammation, a thousand unnatural shocks
This world is heir to. Tis consumption
But more evolved. Deviously in distributed labs
To leak, to spread. For in that sheep perchance a coin
A complex to be mined. Ai. There's the rub
They know what they dug with their infernal inductor coil.

Shrapnel 486

The moon this evening rises in pastel smog
A clotted sky camouflaging its fading edge
Dust watching the dry streets
Clouds pass like small bands
Of grazers whose habitat depletes.

On the parched verges like sand
There are children playing in the heat
This land is not ready
No land is ready
Mascared smile manicured she talks of Java
Whilst for the rest the walls squeeze like slow lava.

The beach is lipped by a magma at the margins
The peatlands like charcoal mounds
Under the saucer of the August moon
Children fill the street with questions.