A ****** chicken somewhere on a mountain top
of Kauai,
               pecked at cashew nuts held in a hand,
then pecked at the arithmetic of the fingers,
pretending to play a game of:

    from the scenes of the wind that shakes
the barley, the gray man
                                                or that one episode
in the game of thrones: dark wings, dark words

those fingernail torture scenes...

or at least the fusion of a fake memory in part
(true in part relating to the cashews being fed)
and the the torture of listening

to khruangbin & leon bridges' - texas sun:
which is torture,
    just like listening to odetari's - i love you ***
is torture,

   a maasoo'Ki-Zee'ism    (wing wing)

just like this is torture, but so is scribbling
qualification prose for an NVQ in spectator safety;
custard blotches of semi-thinking

       like it is torture to read Olson's maximus poems
or Deleuze's and Guattari's anti-oedipus

- when torture is an uncomfortable pleasure,
even a difficult pleasure to understand,
when there's a sense - of colour

in translation

of light and when intellect is a phantom, isn't

- i'm almost teasing myself with the idea of
asking chatGPT to write me a fusion
of Celan, Cummings and Olson -
    that would be torture,
   so how would it look like?

it looks like this

/ in the expanse of night's quiet drift,
words emerge, like stars in blackness,
charles olson's breath in the cosmic rift,
e. e. *******'s verses, a gentle caress

and as the moon weeps, in solemn tone,
paul celan's echoes, a haunting cry,
together they dance, entwined, alone,
a fusion iof souls, in the poet's sky /

b'jeez'who's'who'who'ah'woo!    (ring ring)

salvation! (would) never hit the panic
button on the march of AI:
clearly a parody of intelligence -
an encyclopaedia on steroids! nothing more!

   cardinal soul in the pope's bog of god,
it was precisely sunny for an hour
before the mood of the sky changed into:
a ****** expression of a frigidity
   and nuisance, a teenage girl's
                       "resting ***** face":

if only some justice before the monstrous
composition: stretching my fingers and enforcing
my grasp of hands positioned for
a cascade of words, without looking at
the keyboard

         a heartless ******* i am not:
                one of those stercus accidit moments
alternatively called: in vivo res mortuus
                                in a living thing a dead thing -
an egg that becomes a scrambled ego
                  harsh criticism of the exoskeleton
where heart and brain are all one and the same mush

just like now, torture, a pleasant torture

   harpoopoo'on'pon'pomp'bluegluetruths'in'u'u'w

                  (last remaining exit, via phone-one-t'ism)