Monday, April 16, 2012
NOW WITH WORDS
written automatically via a poetry generator, rearranged and embellished here and there, spread between the 11 booklets.
So electric above the Earth
You converse with vapourous sounds beside the shadows
Dark and black
Against the dream
I bend florescent witches under the trees
You confound brilliant hooks beneath the light.
The bastard is going,
Turning away, no words left,
Where in the end the man wanders aimlessly
In the late light.
The passion will die.
The feeling is over,
trusting defiance, musty women, virgins,
so hot against the wind.
Be wary! The bitch continues,
condemned near the flowers,
the gods wander aimlessly,
trying to remember.
Your brother looks for landmarks and misses,
his turn vanishing,
flickering, fighting back,
over the horizon, sun on his face,
the feeling is good.
How many harbours grow old while
the snow fell and while
we drew quiet spells near the fog
and lustful sounds beneath the sea,
beyond the light that blows the winds,
not understanding a sense of danger
in the places that strangers
talk to themselves.
Grind angry graves
under the rain behind the
flowers quaking near the sea
the others take comfort in
memories of water, dreams below the rain
but you keep going
with your memories
of flying gems
and you never catch up.
Grotesque hands in the dreamscape
smear electric meaning
within the fog,
above the shadows.
The refugee’s arms sought shelter,
sensing danger all through his life,
all his wounds in front,
the lost man splintered
while the world changed around him.
Oh god! quit
flying in the tomb
Repent! the queen
is dead and damp
with diamonds in the sea.
shining intangible in another country,
the smell entrancing demons behind the fire,
weird and rabid against the mud.
A ticking clock, evil and numb,
blurring the edges
and taking a chance.
The fool has fled.
You swallow brilliant monsters
and sketch the wind that blows
to the end of our neighbourhood.
The inspiration has gone blue beneath the clouds;
among the land it’s yellow and strange,
like the face in your mirror.
Take another road on your journey to the
weird and numb place about the spirits
where the light comes from.
We reach! Nothing to lose.
We dispel electric sirens over the Earth.
The twilight transforms us into misty glowing bugs,
glowing hopeful among the bullshit,
saying goodbye, after how many voyages?
Your brother makes his way,
never knowing how in the late light,
the victim seeking the road back.
Can you dig it?
The knave goes green, seducing
invisible shadows on the tower where
the light comes from.
Spirits against spirits conjuring disasters upon
your brother. A trace of sadness,
stopping for a while
No words left.
The sailor asks his way
at a crossroads, wavering awake, grasping
dream-like virgins among the slime,
smelling big bones, sinful and tiny near the gods.
The King never ends. The Queen is a sensuous leech.
The birth is hard.
In how many places your brother, your likeness,
comes singing their praises and
misses his turn,
unafraid and defiant.