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.

Rosemary, rose petals, black pepper and gin

The thing
Is to mix roses, rosemary, black pepper and gin
Stirred thrice times thrice and widdershins too
Then go to the garden when the full moon is blue
Sprinkle each petal while singing a spell
Or you can use a plant spray, it works just as well
Remember, as each syllable you say
To be facing the direction the sun rises each day.

The spell you should sing to banish bad sprites
The type that make mischief by day and by night
The Griggs and Gremlins that sour the milk
Fire the hearth and put holes in the silk.

Brownies, Graylings, Pixies and Sylphs
Gremlins and Griggs and all of their ilk
There’s a ward of such sorcery they won’t ever come in
Rosemary, rose petals, black pepper and gin.
When you have one or two, then you start to sing
Rosemary, rose petals, black pepper and gin.
 
Contrary faerie wary be
There’s scary gin on the petals and rose on the leaves
Your wings will be furry and burns on your feets
Contrary faeries wary be yee.

Shrapnel 101

What does humanity deserve but this
In its button mouthed obsequious cowardice
The powers that direct dismiss
The relevance of human life
And work us hard in our own species sacrifice.

Ode to the lost innocence of Facebook

Sotto
Once so social, this list
Has listed, tacked a different keel
Set in cycles of fear.
My feed has become
Counter-revolutionary
Colonised by Capital
Selling low grade psalms, myths
Curiously distorted heuristics
This media, an instrument of measurement
Recombinant
America became afraid of its own socialism
Wall Street stoked subsidy of free things
Now the revolution degrades
Paymasters who bought clouds and code
Have plucked the goose bare, stuffed it
Wondering why gold eggs do not hatch
The patch, upon the patchwork
The hand me down brand all stitched
And what is this
The onward march of mathematics
That accountants yet resist.

Case for the consecution

Instead of progress and prostitution
Focus on
The congress and constitution
The dread of protest and procession
If there is contest of the concession
I profess this is protracted
Just confess if you're contracted
Forget all the talk about professional productivity
We need confessionals about conductivity.

Blueprint for the revolution - Icebergs I

 These

Crystal mountains bathed in sharp arctic light
Some slow souls dyed in clear blue of the sky
Of the live sea, glittering like insight
This life source in cliffs, sation crystallised

Firm as certainty in the rugged timescape
Apex, gulley, fluid hill, brief valley
Translucent in light, that bends and that shapes
Calm yet creaking, set mass of clarity.

For all the great height seen, all touched by light
Rising above, that shines and glowers
There is a counterweight nine-fold as great
In the murky depths from which it towers.

These icebergs will melt, difuse in clear sea
All locked in cold depths will one day be free.

Least resistance

If I was a flirt
And you were tired and hung over
This wouldn't hurt
Strung like a shawl round the form of another
Some lover.
I could write this for you.

If I had worked
Was tired and drained through
Lain langurous and languid
With loquacious lips
Whispering witless witticisms, wishes and quips
Would that settle your hips
Like the sea with its tide
Or need set flame to forest
To find what's inside?

If was a flirt
Which I'm scarce known to do
It wouldn't hurt just to tease
I could write this for you.

If I was a flirt, which would be a scandal
I could ornament an ornate handle
For your master-key
Perhaps this passion
Flows lazily, the path of least resistance
Like a river to sea
Just more chemical jewellery to your O2
It's just a piece of art
I could write this for you.

A flirt might mention you
Muse beautiful in presence and poise
But such words are cheap, simply noise
The act up and set up caused in all of the boys
These words are not yet written in true
Muse beautiful
I could write this for you.

II.

Since of course, I'm not a flirt
Seldom even bat a lash or raise an eyebrow to suggestion
But an artist who harnesses complexes for the purpose of expression
I could start to say

III.

There are no words for this
Our language is not shared
It is not created
Yet, its letters
Written in chemistry maps, hieroglyphs of textures
Across the inimiccable lattice
Of each galaxy's atlas
In the gravity created from memory
Between each light at dawn and us
Between memories of the echoed resonance of our spaced bodies.
The true speakers of the language of soul
Have no tongues
Our words are not yet made.

Pigs might fly

The sins of swindling gas networks
Swine. Digestive enzymes
Circular systems. Not production lines
Waste.
Pigs might fly.

Did not a pig fly a spitfire
In the war?
Pigs might fly from the gas
Of their own waste
Transcranial networks by Musk
Auto-pilot, methane in the rocket.

In the home of Cnut
Where wind-turbines were born
The swine keeps the light on
And neighbourhoods warm.

You might think this all gas
What I’m saying not true
That pigs might fly
But swine already flew.

Twyku for the Lemur born in Kyiv Zoo

So hope Bayraktar
Maybe you will fly
A captive life far from Madagascar
Is a caged house bombed better
Than the conflict upon the forest of your kin?
What is it to win?
The slow growing of a tree
To full vigour
The spread of mangrove by the sea
Only this is victory.

War drums

Grasses to ashes, ashes to the Grapes of Wrath
Fibrous humus crushed beneath the heavy laden hoof
What cause is this but thirst?
The sparse Sahara creeps
Past pillars of Hercules
Across the short sea to Sicilly
And in the West, the ice face of the Shore weeps.

We have left barrels uncast
A waste of fireworks far up a mountain pass
Silos of have built missiles
Half filled with grain
A just in time refined to adjust
The severity of pain.

What can justice be? In this time
Of Kings made children
Toys of the tools still writhing in their hands
A screech a swatch on clouded heaven
A tremor where we stand.

The demand curve shows a human surplus
The cost of death has decimated
The price of life a hockey stick
Of possibility and purpose.

This edifice of rock and light, of copper
Built atop a ziggurat, the tilted axis teetering
A hairpin slipped, the lever live
The young colt moves to cantering.

The free world has betrayed its name
Built its opposite by reflection
And seethes beneath a film of scum
As Olympus wars in insurrection. 

A palace

See the light cut
See the tumbling dust aeolian
Caught in a shaft of the high window
Hear the footfalls that echo
Across the hall
The wide handled balustrade
The chairs that stretch broad across the walls.

The residents flit about the coiling light
Scurry under doors
The empty space of silent night
Etched by a rustle on the floor.

These palaces
Shuttered with the fountains running
Stuttering with ruined walls
Butlered, polished and foresaken
A far cry from anguished calls.

We know the tent camps are numbered
Crowded in a click on busy screens
And that water drops on a marble floor
In a sumptuous space unseen.

Did it make a sound? Or prove another law
If no one saw the hand that made
The key turn in the door?
The palaces are locked while people starve
We have seen this all, before.

Struggle on the Steppe

How long can last a vicious tumult
Between two men
Struck through the foot with a bolt?

They been on pipe

They been on pipe
In the swamp
The loosened belt that lunches
Took what they want
High as kites and satellites
All lunched out on pipe.

Took pipe in Split, Belgrade
So 90s
Took pipe in Kirkuk, Erbil
Naughty
Took pipe in Sana, Aleppo
Teeny problem
Just look the other way.

No smoke without fire
No turbine without steam
I guess the promise of cold peace
Was just a pipe dream.

The broken pipe, a smoking gun
High on the great game, shame
Asian monopoly board
Still run by Gazprom

All those departments state
Dreaming. We been on pipe
For decades. Time is ripe to quit
What?
Smoking them pipes?
Like all the addicts say
We'll give up next Tuesday
Or if Russia invades.

Letter to the Minister for Brexit Opportunities

 Dear Jacob,

I hope you have found your office.
Now I imagine
That you are familiar
With those dynamics, non-linear
(Chaos)
In which the parameters
Shape the emergent manners
Well, not so much the manners
As behaviours. Though I am sure
You are versed in etiquette.

This Green and Pleasant Land
Is greened by rain
And if we are to make the rain
Upon our fertile soils
So that it is neither gaseous steam
Nor opaque snow
And the ripe ear rewards a farmer's toils
The parameters, we know
Pressure, temperature, saturation
All are critical.

So while the crystaline matrix
Of the European Commission
May have locked certain sectors in an ice like grip
A little loosening of bonds, your decisions
May create more flexibility,
Certain animal spirits bring
But, it is easy
After a day or two in snow
To see one can have too much
Of a good thing.

It needs no explanation
That law and regulation
Are significant parameters
In any economic equation

A bonfire of red tape
Is doubtless an emissions issue
Dioxins and pthalates on the Eskimo
But a neat cut with scissors
May make pretty bows and ribbons.
We can take it as given
That presents should come wrapped.

Let me refer you to the building code
For example
There are now no laws
On timber builds or steel
They were upon withdrawal
Summarily repealed
This presents challenges for insurance and certification
When we must presently innovate as nations.

But the gas, yes
The hot air and steam
Will not water this pleasant land
And to break those EU crystals
Into free molecules and vapour
Will make a great show now
But problems later.
A tricky juggle for deregulators
A complexity beyond the cudgels
Of those vulgar ideological debaters.

So, Dear Jacob
You are rich enough
To tuff it out with other toffs
Who tussle snouts about the trough
With all those dirty sheets to wash
To make a greater number wealthy
Even if they can't be posh.

I commend to you, the house
And of course the trough
That subtlety is of the essence
When dealing with complexity
And the stem should not be De
But Re
Reregulation
Hydrodynamics, Thermodynamics, Ecodynamics
A better supper structure
Rather than debasement
To the base, that race
To becomes the lowest in the global basement.

The economic plumbing, yes.
Where would this nation be
If the locks and weirs
Upon the steady canals
Did not flow, but merely
Trickled down?

No arts, no letters, nor commodius living
The coal to Cornwall
Bought by horse
Still pirates, in want of shillings
Trusted exchange, named a Bourse.

So Dear Jacob, you
I urge, to move beyond simple polarities
See it not in 2D but 3
Beyond 3, in as many dimensions as a GPT
Sometimes a tuck, a tweak, a nip
Will be better than scrapping the lot of it
So in your learned cogitations
Amid the forest of regulations
I urge, not a purge, but a carving
To Re, not De.
And that Sir, is my farthing.

Valentine for S

This love letter is late
No need for ritual to mark the permanent
I demure to imprint your special day.

This love letter is late
The friction of my pen
Making my cochlea ring
My love for you
Must be so very interesting
Sapir-Worf in syrup
The Parthians first in Central Asia to the stirrup
If I had not sat in a Dutch cafe
Wrote a letter so full of doubt
If we had not sold survival of all species together
Perhaps it was Wolbachia
When I left to learn
The woman two floors above saw the walls bleeding
Where I was housed in a stone cell below
My definition is your satellite as I wrote so long ago
Of course
All memories are subject to revisionism
You must be interesting
For even as I stop to stroke a harmony
From the taught chords of loves memory
The circuits choke in observation
The kynurenine, all gated with baby snails
This is an internally reflective conjecture
A post-post romantic love letter

Maybe the children will not have to grow to hate
The ontological big data project
If I am careful to annunciate
That intimacy interfered with, is a non-sequitur
Such a curious, post-post romantic love letter.

Valentines note

They say, Cuore
The heart of Italy
Will be the coolest spot in the universe.
Still, they'll call you for calibration.