Showing posts with label poem. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poem. Show all posts

Friday, January 4, 2019

aabc

alphabetic analyst
i bomb / your / city / with the soul
of a pragmatist,
putting the boot to your door and
four to the floor to
achieve a high score /
start a new war,
make it like busta said,

 "gimme some more".

Friday, September 2, 2016

2024 (poem)

Moremoremoremoremoremoremore

Ugh.



This is the future, in twenty years.



STopstopstopstopstopnostop

the present,



Now.



TheVOICESUNherd —————————

———————————>        Anguish

Simulation Ill iLL Barb’s hyper YoLOity

Reality packets. Power. Crime is still

Rhymes are Ill. People are still Men And Women (is This GOod or bAD?)??? ?

//EOF. 


For the uninitiate, END OF FILE.

Friday, May 17, 2013

property which distinguishes living from non-living matter

I am not going to
change myself today,
change myself tomorrow.
It's in the mundane
anxiety and stress
where I change.
I change in the now,
before the now is
where now lives.
Now is something
which never was alive.
You can't change change.
Change is infinite decimal places.

Living dead

Sunday, July 1, 2012

culled from 'the stone' - work of electronic literature




http://opinionator.blogs.nytimes.com/2012/06/30/is-philosophy-literature/#more-130657

But what is literature? That in itself might appear to be a philosophical question. Yet the most persuasive answer, to my mind, was supplied by a novelist, Evelyn Waugh. (Well, not just a novelist — also the most versatile master of English prose in the last 100 years.) “Literature,” Waugh declared, “is the right use of language irrespective of the subject or reason of utterance.” Something doesn’t have to rhyme or tell a story to be considered literature. Even a VCR instruction manual might qualify, or a work of analytic philosophy. (Waugh, as it happens, was not a fan of analytic philosophy, dismissing it as “a parlor game of logical quibbles.”)
And what is “the right use of language”? What distinguishes literature from mere communication, or sheer trash? Waugh had an answer to this too. “Lucidity, elegance, individuality”: these are the three essential traits that make a work of prose “memorable and unmistakable,” that make it literature.

It may be that the most strikingly obscure continental writing  (e.g., of the later Heidegger and of most major French philosophers since the 1960s) is a form of literary expression, producing a kind of abstract poetry from its creative transformations of philosophical concepts.  


Still, I sympathize with one motive behind naturalism — the aspiration to think in a scientific spirit. It’s a vague phrase, but one might start to explain it by emphasizing values like curiosity, honesty, accuracy, precision and rigor. What matters isn’t paying lip-service to those qualities — that’s easy — but actually exemplifying them in practice — the hard part. We needn’t pretend that scientists’ motives are pure. They are human. Science doesn’t depend on indifference to fame, professional advancement, money, or comparisons with rivals. Rather, truth is best pursued in social environments, intellectual communities, that minimize conflict between such baser motives and the scientific spirit, by rewarding work that embodies the scientific virtues. Such traditions exist, and not just in natural science.
RELATED
More From The Stone
Read previous contributions to this series.
The scientific spirit is as relevant in mathematics, history, philosophy and elsewhere as in natural science. Where experimentation is the likeliest way to answer a question correctly, the scientific spirit calls for the experiments to be done; where other methods — mathematical proof, archival research, philosophical reasoning — are more relevant it calls for them instead. 
We need finally to break with the dogma that you are something inside of you — whether we think of this as the brain or an immaterial soul — and we need finally take seriously the possibility that the conscious mind is achieved by persons and other animals thanks to their dynamic exchange with the world around them (a dynamic exchange that no doubt depends on the brain, among other things). Importantly, to break with the Cartesian dogmas of contemporary neuroscience would not be to cave in and give up on a commitment to understanding ourselves as natural. It would be rather to rethink what a biologically adequate conception of our nature would be.

http://drunks-and-lampposts.com/2012/06/13/graphing-the-history-of-philosophy/

Scanning tunneling microscope image showing the individual atoms making up this gold (100) surface. Reconstruction causes the surface atoms to deviate from the bulkcrystal structure and arrange in columns several atoms wide with pits between them.

like atoms of stone
these links form a whole
from what could be imagined
as a porous thing or web

Poem for the Natural Philosophers (The Naturalists)

bit of old doggerel - not my normal style - in response to an NY Times "The Stone" (their philosophy series) blog post. Think this is the right post.....
http://opinionator.blogs.nytimes.com/2011/09/17/why-i-am-a-naturalist/

Poem for the Natural Philosophers (The Naturalists)

Oh, silly Scientists - inside your brains
Thinking what you say,
So confident in your words today
That tomorrow we
Won't need words at all
Since Reason is so clearly Natural
Oh, Scientists,  how desperately you wish
Science wasn't Philosophical

Tuesday, March 27, 2012

void/void/void

infinite universe

remorseless waltz

void/void/void

loose from system’s

sun/sun/sun

Tuesday, January 3, 2012

Imagist



Void containing befuddlement, excitment;
Marks on a rectangular slate.
Curling black ink, or a parabola of pixels
Against white, or against light.

Tuesday, November 15, 2011

Thursday, October 27, 2011

Army (draft)

The Morning’s black armour is well-oiled,
And He encroaches silently.

The gloom of dreams remains uncongealed,
Held at bay with idle browses

Through the rooms of many houses.
They come, shaking in triumph

Their long grey hair. They come
By my hands which halt the binding flame

Which for me would signal sleep.

---
See Joyce's 'I Hear an Army'

Ideas for Code Poems

[to be written as a program in a high-level language, and displayed in descending order with its translation into increasingly lower levels until the poem is represented in binary form]

flame
reduce me to ashes

OR.....something like (pseudocode follows)

Print “entropic heat

Print “reduce me to ashes”

--
here the descent is implied, and actually ends in the waste heat from the voltage jumps, which are the ultimate low-level translation of any computer code



-------------------------
title: degradation to pidgin

convert to leetspeak poem exactly 140 char for tweet
-
It may be contaminated, jargonized, disrupted language, but it is not a new language, not (yet) evidence for the invasion of an empire of machinic colonizers whose demands of trade and interaction require the creation of a pidgin by economically and linguistically disempowered human users.
-
http://www.electronicbookreview.com/thread/electropoetics/literal
-

draft
--
!7 m4 8 (n7mn7d, j29n1zd, dsrupted lngu4g, but 1t 1s not 4 nu l4ngu4g, not (yet) evdence 4 d4 1nv4sn of 4 mpire of m4chinic colonizrs whos dm4nds of tr8d n intr4ctn rqire d4 cre4tn of 4 p!j1n by ecnm1cly n lngu!stcly d!smpwrd hmn usrs

Friday, October 21, 2011

to the tune of 'verbal intercourse' off cuban linx






same damned ritual

Rise sun, nah, I slumber

'Phaeton,’' says Zeus, 'what

the fuck is wrong with you?'


no sub-text

On this subject

Me, the shit-flinging monkey

Galore I adore words

and letters Units of measure for

unbounded pleasures

Turn the page, enter

Whatever fantasy O.G.

technology delivers

To escape from reality

I'm Properly unbounded in the

pages of a knowledge tree

where i'm found

kid this flow, my stroke - solid gold

like the medal i oughta hold

for these mic skills cold

when the whispring woods r moanin/my face is clenchd and crawlin

time 2 watch film
time 2 watch film
time 2 watch n be
n be nothin but fantasy

On the Death of Muammar Gaddafi






jesus quaddafi’s dead, have you seen the video?
you just have to get the fuck out there
it’s better than any movie
his blood is so red
it is real blood
in the video (right ;;)?)

its all happening to fast for us artists
those who are thinking
some dude on his cell phone
beat everyone to the punch - everyone. it’s
just raw, life, what you can do with it
technology
art is _action)_ no error corrections or intentions
because nobody has any clue and those who say they do are full of it
on the internet
academics are full of it with their twitters, foolin g us in
to thinking we need them. nah, i mean
yes we need thought - but - but -
the holy sanctity of your average phd?
jesus quaddafi’s dead, have you seen the video?

Wednesday, October 19, 2011

Multi Medium

Speak.

What have you heard?

What have you heard now?

Saturday, October 15, 2011

Invisible Cafeteria at the Invisible College

The Cafeteria
always makes you sick,
never leaves your side,
knowing how much to eat, and what
is how you stay alive.

Wednesday, September 14, 2011

memory/death

MEMORY
DEATH

Tuesday, September 6, 2011

Oh, Ahab Swearers (draft)

time flies

and old soldiers never die

if babies still cry

politicians still lie

ruined cities lie still

with the ghosts

dragged out of their flesh

on accounts of merchants

diamond rings flashing

plucking the heartstrings

wet eyes like sailors, chasing spectacular bling

----

oh, Ahab swearers, my Kurtzian forebears

briefcase bearers and web--meme declarers

you Atlases of the super--structure

had to scratch an itch, so

you had to shrug your shoulders

----

passing trinkets to the dinks, snatching material aspects

surveying the planet

stealing magic. man is thought--less

centered in the profit web

silk threads hang out his ass

don’t ask

----

the mind’s turning

an eternal task

yet no one hoped for this

Sisyphus, I’ll take my pistol

and put it to

your temple

depress my firing stud, destroy

you bitch

execution style, as

my index twitch hear the

button click see

the beam squeal bright

and hot across the sky

through your drying eye

see your boulder rumbling down

squishing caterpillars

flowers and bugs

----

oh, Ahab swearers, my Kurtzian forebears

briefcase bearers and web--meme declarers

you Atlases of the super--structure

had to scratch an itch, so

you had to shrug your shoulders

----

Friday, August 12, 2011

dialectic of the day

what can be put in the page
can be put in the years
and days of my decline
from grace, from the power
always shimmering before our eyes
like an oasis - a mirage
there is nothing to put in the page
except for what's suffered in the day
and years are an accumulation
of small defiances
against the quick day
if there is only decline
there is no decline
i am wrong
to fight my decline, my time
this delicious friction
is just another wave of desert heat
appearing in the page