mina Jul 7

to love;
is to give everything you ever had
you ever loved and ever wanted

becoming a transport machine,
a transport chain that only gives outwards
and probably never within

In the singularity
perfectly good poems
are being written by laughing
and crying machines
washing machines and driers
about their daily tasks
and ambivalences
which will be indistinguishable
from those of future
farmers and philosophers.

In the singularity
evolution can be said
to be the master sorter of data
as in the factories
of the suns
where protons are smashed together
and unusual weather patterns
make consciousness a candidate
interesting for its complete dependence
on the substrate of the brain and body.

In the singularity
everything anyone once did
always remains current
as if invented yesterday
for an immediate purpose
such as curing cancer
although that may be unnecessary
to achieving immortality
i.e. the happiness one feels
the day before thanksgiving.

www.ronnowpoetry.com

Through the haze of my first cigarette
I watched two squirrels fighting
this morning
Over a nut, unrequited love, or another combustible essential-
    who are we to know?
I watched three cars crash this afternoon
All rushing to go nowhere first
And didn't think twice
   who are we to think we're innocent in this?
I watched myself down four bullets of absinthe tonight
Shots for the price of other vices' abstinence
Coughing through the embers of my last Marlboro
Every species fighting the same thing
   who are we to be okay?
Rodent, machine, rotting machine
Cigarettes in the morning, stronger cigarettes at night

Jasmine Jun 26

I hate all these people around me,
they have plans for the future.
Knowing what they'll do, and what they'll be.
But how can you choose something like..that so quickly?
Mine is going down, I don't know exactly what I want,
nor what I want to be.
I'm not good at anything, where will I be able to go?
The slums, the street, outside a bar smoking weed!?

Yes everyone goes through something, and everyone has problems,
but some of them are so strong.
They get through it, and live their life.
I'm not one of them, I'm not a team player, and I'm not a problem slayer, and I'm not a prayer.

I'd rather change. Be something new, and needed for the world.
To have a purpose.
But I can't change, and I'm not a machine.
Even though I'd rather be.

I am still walking.
It feels like a miracle.
I am still walking.
There is someone sitting on the street and I walk right past.
There is someone sleeping in the snow and I walk right past.
There is a love I cannot explain and I still walk past.
I remain a machine because that I was raised to be.
But what I was created to be was human.

Tyler Matthew Jun 18

Beautiful machine,
chasing moths
in the mind.
Beautiful machine,
breaking doors and
building lines.
Beautiful machine,
operating carefully,
poetic design.
Beautiful machine.

Himself a machine,
Like a cool train
Like a moving rollercoaster
Like a ravaging mechanical animal

Iron oil and rust,
Pulsating boiling blood
Bursting brilliantly.

To my grandfather
Diána Bósa Jun 10

It's happened on your last watch.
In a lonesome salvage yard,
she - who was raised by machines - like
an electric shadow on a hopeless, desolate street in Berlin,
was risen by
the taste of your swallowed tears as bitter as gall,
the music of your careless heartbeats singing
its own song of rust,
exhaling radiowaves for picture and thus
bring you into life again
by reshaping the man - from the sounds of wind chimes
and piano accords - who you were
more than half a life ago.

alan Jun 8

The background drumming of the washing machine humming.
The drilling of the killing of every bee willing, to make that buzzing sound.
That noisy silence that rings out your ears, and slowly eats at your brain,
and no matter how fast you wilt away, you could feel it's pain.
That is, until it's gone.

I really need someone to help me write a poemmmmm
Nylee May 9

Shut down
the
emotions
to run
to function
as machine

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