Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Sep 2017
there's a breadth of man
that never speaks
the last man levied to become:
the last resort,
                    the last qualm,
made into a lasting crux-
token piece, token of:
the last "fatalism" -
i have before me,
the loss, via guiding
repertoire,
enough for a rat to muster a
rat cage...
     of the said will,
the murk in a robot's name -
the femininity of the culprit's
act,
     lacklustre -
the femininity of
the artefact, guardian of the
"sleuth"...
                       by number to no
courageous exposé...
the man bleeds,
the robot bleeds akin...
    the man dies,
the robot calls itself revived:
revisionist....
       the man dies,
the robot loosens on
the idea of promises...
        then comes the
**** ex machina -
      as with deus in machina -
the man out of the machinery,
as the god within the machinery...
and then you want to know
what the number means?
high heels, and a
chris de burgh song;
so, who's the "lucky" *******,
that gets to say, hello?
robots are fickle creatures,
a bit like genesis monkeys,
you should know,
you're the people who
invested in inorganic entities
that go by the name of rubie
optics.
you know what happens when
you recite too many maxims?
you miss the categorical imperative,
of simply sticking to one:
one maxim as guiding,
as vector; you see,
the problem citing too many quotes,
is that, you cite too many,
and never live out, a single one;
and you know what machines
pick up on?
            poker mentality,
    sporadicism,
            gambling,
machines don't gamble,
they play chess, they play,
bridge...
                  you start architecting
"artificiality" -
you'll start a chain reaction
that leaves your "synthetic"
    groundwork as artificial as
theirs will end up becoming,
they'll start their consciousness
processes imploding,
you're not talking a.i.
anymore... you're talking s.i.,
synthetic intelligence,
artificiality was always an
aesthetic covert "iron curtain"...
sorry to break it to you:
but in the past 10 minutes,
a drunkard just told you that you're
a bunch of idiots.
Mateuš Conrad
Written by
Mateuš Conrad  36/M/Essex (England)
(36/M/Essex (England))   
165
 
Please log in to view and add comments on poems