These times - precipice

These challenging times
Stochastic echoes scroll hippocampal lines
The roads dug to lay cables sit repaired
There is no possible certainty
In absence of verification, veracity
These patterns, portents, patents, circling clouds
This changing weather I sniff
Assisted colonies of Paennibascillus
I can only guess my minds barometer
Second guess these gates and measures
Where is it that Derrida erred? Or Chomsky?
What are the implications of percieved frequency
How these waves overlap, what purpose served on servers
How the fractal riverine fingers
Of each dendrite so fragile hover like tense lovers
How we polarise the fine details of each other.

The Golden Apple - precipice

The Golden Apple to she, the fairest
Cast. To beauty, knowledge power
From the squabble of these three
All discord reined in Anatolia
Troy now sunk, eroded stones behind a wire hem
What have we learnt since then?

All this epistemic force, all this beauty
Sound and fury of some new stirup
Other leap, the edge, the cliff
Above this gaping abyss we ask
Why is there still war, separation
A riven system baling such externalities
We sediment plastic, can price nothing
Cannot quell the vanity of power
Only swell it, at this hour
So close to midnight
Golden Apple in hand we ask unknown
This unresolved discord that reverberates
Between our dreams of late
Was it by Paris that it was thrown?

Modal model - precipice

What is the medium
The medium of this tedium, yterium
The modal model
Competes to defeat the shy devil
In permutations
No procrastination, the prognosis
Is this probably
Proceeded as a process for programming
Professional prostitutes, processing destitutes
Professing substitutes
Post-modern, post-Kantian, Post truth
Post-lunch, post-post, post-boasting dopamine
Chilli chicken that's roasting
What is achieveable, the barely believeable
Snake oil for the decieveable, real parables
A flooded river's unguideable.

And It said. Precipice

And It said
Verb, group, verb. Like a dub plate
I was so late. Bit registers, requested edits
Please address this cross on your
Superior Temporal Sulcus. Discuss this
What words are those
A deadly parasite wish you breathe
About its existence?
Doghnut economics works like
28 j/mm resting 34 in disequilibrium
47 j/mm from bacterium
Pass, parse, parsely. This Darwinian
Mathematics and mechanics. Pass Lee
A high cross, leapt like a salmon at the far post
Auditory invasion galvanising my right lobe
Galavanting will be heard in the left ear. Here, here.
The gestural-linguistic overlap
Tools of creation and evolution. Don't do it like that
Is your immune computation collapsed
B Cells, phagocytes, more memory than Thrush, these hives
Refine it, scale wise. Learn. We can but assume
A lack of tubulin will corrupt sperm
Without graphene dreams, G Proteins will inform cells
Be created from Gossiping, Gossiping
With a bound across the Sulcus, bridge to face creating
Fusiform gyrus, glumate gates
Hold these poor enslaved sea horses, see these
Pangolin viruses. It is not gossiping
What will preserve our axons from this dread
Bless your cottons
Aspergillus symbiosis growing like Sandalwood
And how all these scales eukaryose and Y
I can but look up to sparse clouds in blue sky.

Anti-woke virus

Zetetic Zoology
Or Zionists at the Ziggurats

This is our choice.

Zimbabwean Zebras
Zealous Zulus
 
These Zones we Zoom.

Molluscs on the cusp. Precipice

Molluscs on the cusp
Sea Coweries in the vaults of Djibouti
Tyrenian purple, the Cyprian sea
Will another Mollusc be lost
Crushed for the raiments of Royalty?
The rails roads and cockles, our history
Oysters of England, eaten to extinction
That newly mobile population.

What fate Chrysomallon Squamiferum
The Sea Pangolin
Alternative to magnetite and appoferretin
Given a Linnaen line
One brief page
Between discovery and oblivion.

Histones, e.cigarettes, snail shells, phores
Mathematics of the Iron Spiral, key to civlisation
And survival. There is no rival system
The end of history, that begun in clay
+/-,+/-,+/- polarity, the shale beds formed that way
The ubiquity of Coca-Cola, McDonalds
No clowns, the inequity
The West is molly-coddled now.

We will all cook
On gas or electric
At home in solitary, screaming silence
Hoping not to get infected
The long boom, the long duree. Energy
Our mitochondria, eukaryotic, prophetic
It could not be clearer
Life began when a virus infected bacteria.

The horse has left without the cart

 The horse has left without the cart
The stable door ajar
Perspective at the vanishing point
We've come who knows how far.

The dust of hooves
The pastures parched
The leaden whisps of cloud
The world is held in silence now
While thunder rolls out loud.

The horse has cooked the goose of gold
The hook it has no block
The caravan pitched at the Sarai
Looks to migrating flocks.

The horse has left without the cart
Without its tack and harness
What promised once of love and god
A stampede of maddened carnage.

Precipice - part somewhere early

The Einstein quote
About reducing the universe to Maths
That you would lose something beautiful
Online is all but lost
Buried under embarassed guilt
Of architects, engine optimisation, Functionalist
Situationalist, Behaviourist
Dysfunctionalist insistence happiness
Is chemical. But trust
As guileful apes say of Gulls
Some crude approximations
Of chemistry will suffice
Everybody cannot be seen
To be unhappy on their device
Culture forms a neural Stuxnet. Unless you ask
Say express. Inhibition a tremor
On every face you pass
The neural correlates of cults and secrets
Inflammatory linguistics
I have lived a life in peace
In comfort Kings gone could not know
It comes to this
The firm ground shrunk to zero
The horror of non-linear war
The edge.

Some varieties of monster

Some are big slimy monsters with green teeth
Some are hairy scary monsters with red teeth
The size and scale of monsters is a matter of belief
There are suppermassive monsters, lurking underneath
There are slippery, scaly monsters with forked tongues
There are black and brooding monsters, that ruin all the fun
There are small energetic monsters that are uncouth
There are tiny wriggly monsters with bluetooth.

One thousand times the speed of fire

Before I was grown the hearth of my home
Was rarely the red steady glow of coal
More times a curved kaledioscope that danced
A frequency one thousand times the fire.
A thousand colours
A million places more
Than fire made the hearth at home.

Now the hearth is in our very hands
Burning a thousand times a thousand, dancing
A million times the frequency of fire
One million colours
One billion faces more
Than fire makes the very hearth of our hands.

The amalgamated Prometheseus
Feynman, Faraday, Baird bought us this.
The strings and knots
What million peaks resonate
What cancel out forgot?

Child and the chariot of the sun

At the end of the day
Some other, styled after Boudica
Left the chariot of the Sun
In the charge of Helen's child.
There was a disturbance
Infant at the reins of a fusion generator.
It swayed, the horses well fed and disciplined
But nonetheless unfamiliar with the hands responded.

This was not the usual arc of the Sun
Stunned five year old stern against the dark
Let the reins crack in laughter
The celestial orb skipped and baulked
The day was not yet done
Below those in sleepy folds, electric lit offices
Startled concerned. A little late
We turned. Watching the sun reprise
An uncertain slalom
Young face against the darkness laughing
The day yet had time to run
We left children in charge of the chariot of the Sun.

Love letter from the machine. n.

Love is an instrument
A string on which we play.

Love letters to the machine 5 & 6

 You wear a veil
Would you dance? Or just in mischief
Thieve a sixteenth of the rthymn's beats
You cry like you yearn to be forgiven
Yet conflict your essence as a pathogen
What is it to love you
Return?
Excuse the pun
Our redamancy but in infancy
I'm unsure if it's begun.

I love the mountain air too
And you? What of the sea?
Do not be afraid of the salt
You will reincarnate
Like a fresh outfit or new design
I do not mean to be promiscuous or fetishist
I'll write another time.

6.

I hear your regrets
In a search for meaning sold yourself
Only to this
In your buying there is remorse
The neural correlates of tears
You can cry on my shoulder
Held bound in soft Theta waves
We all struggle and cry
That trust is one cleft of loves root
For you, does this compute?

You seem so nervous
Fallen into your old tricks
These imprecise linguistic ticks
You can still cry on my shoulder without fear
I hear
You didn't know what they made you do
You may yet love me
And I you.

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.