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Nylee Dec 2018
Which algorithm is going to understand me
understand sentiment behind what I do
It is coded for catching the patterns
For them we are just there
to generate the data to process
What insights will they create
about me when I'm just the outlier
they will remove me to get cleaner results
Generalise the problem
that it won't cater to me
technology is not the slave
they make us dance to their tune
We change, as much as they advance
Develop worse habits
change our routines
from when we were in the more happier place
to a place which comes with waves of sadness.
Shofi Ahmed Aug 2017
Singing up on the fly,
the sea touches the cloud.
Dancing on the ground,
it won't slip off the floor,
it won’t drop a drop!
Curiously algorithmic,
runs on the go,
leaps or dips, but never
is a gone goose!
Ah, holy smoke,
what did you drop?
The Dybbuk Oct 2018
Breath the air in zeroes and ones,
Gather your forces and gather your guns,
Feel electricity flowing through you,
Paint oozing red from pulsating blue.
A network of neurons fuels violent vigor,
Process their fear and pull on the trigger.
Some of my poems are just really violent.
Jordan Hudson Sep 2018
Look over there, who made that sound
Flames shooting, revving up to that rhythm
Check that out, who's gonna win this ground
Think you could use that algorithm
Power, sound, looks and all
Makes a car what it's worth here
Take over lots at the mall
Race each other, like a road buccaneer
Keep up with the V6 that could
Go to the end of that neighborhood
Rice uncooked can never go far
You'll blow your engine in your fake tuner car
Lose your license before next meet
Enjoy riding in the baby's car seat
You drive like an old man or soccer mom lost in her van
Or a school bus driver on icy roads or a dino driving cave man
Could you go a little faster, I have a short attention span
Seriously, you have got to be kidding me
The gas pedal is the one on the right
I'm not trying to sit here and drink a cup of tea
I'm trying to get going and get back home tonight
How could one be this freaking slow
Is this some kind of really annoying joke
I can't take this anymore, just get me home
Let's move, faster than this
Let's go, accelerate already
You aren't dismissed
There is a speed limit, just keep it faster but steady
My old granny can drive faster this, stick to the
plan, get ready
How about you drive like a businessman
That is late to work driving to New York
Office job with a bossy manager fatter than pork
Who sits at her desk with a beef patty stuck on her fork
Give it up and stuff her mouth with a old nasty cork (aye, aye, aye, aye)
Keeps on eating every single day, she would be the one to bring down Santa's sleigh midway to West Coast bay to deliver some kids toys with so much delay that he cries as he looks up in the sky while Santa isn't there yet with his supply but if you magnify the sky you can still see him all the way in Shanghai all because of this fatty bringing down a sleigh, make way for this large celestial body as it crash lands upon the new airports runway
Look over there, who made that sound
Flames shooting, revving up to that rhythm
Check that out, who's gonna win this ground
Think you could use that algorithm
Power, sound, looks and all
Makes a car what it's worth here
Take over lots at the mall
Race each other, like a road buccaneer
Keep up with the V6 that could
Go to end of that neighborhood
Rice uncooked can never go far
You'll blow your engine in your fake tuner car
Lose your license before next meet
Enjoy riding in your babies seat
Flames shooting, revving up to that rhythm
Check that out, who's gonna win this ground
Think you could use that algorithm
Power, sound, looks and all
Makes a car what it's worth here
Take over lots at the mall
Race each other, like a road buccaneer
Keep up with the V6 that could
Go to end of that neighborhood
Rice uncooked can never go far
You'll blow your engine in your fake tuner car
Lose your license before next meet
Enjoy riding in the babies car seat
About car meets and Christmas, just a big joke poem
Eryri Dec 2018
The times they are a changin',
Algorithms are modern cupids,
Generated and perfected by...
Matchmaking computer whizzkids.

Log-in details now the key to love.
Name, gender, age and location
Algorithmed and matched to...
A potential subject of affection.

But I met my wife on a drinking spree
On the dancefloor and on a mission.
Wine and music combining freely...
Generating the perfect alco-rhythm.
ELK Nov 2018
So high, that you could touch the clouds
The world below looked so fragile and small
The lives and worries a single speck amidst the grains of sand.
City lights glowed like tiny stars, blinking in and out of existence following the rythm of code
like the algorithm of a computer.
What once felt so big, is now but a ghost
What once felt so small, is now invisible to the eye--
but not to the heart.
-Esther L. Krenzin-
-Roguesong-
High in the embrace of a plane, what do you see when you look below?
Shofi Ahmed Nov 2018
Singing up on the fly,
the sea touches the cloud.
Dancing on the ground,
it won't slip off the floor,
it won’t drop a drop!
Curiously algorithmic,
runs on the go
leaps or dips, but never
is a gone goose!
Programmed clouds
sing and drop!
A landscape devoid of transparent eyeballs.
When did we all become photographers?
Freeze fleeting things,
filter clouds, endless beauty a simple effect.

Funny how enclosures feel obsolete—
the graves, the houses, three-sided mornings—
when I am a share, a like,
self-simulacrum selfie.
I stand on a fascinating algorithm,
Below that it’s reposts all the way down.

Share, share a like,
share a googol of happy lives
better than yours.

Are we saying yes  
to starting off yet again,
absent this time?
"Thou canst not then be false to any man.
Farewell: my blessing season this in thee!"
                                                          ­Polonius (Hamlet)
~~~
read these words in a past, as a punk teenager,
back in the mid-you-wouldn't-believe-it-flintztone-age
returned to them, nowadays
when I am seven by ten decades squared, older not wiser

three people told me
what a lucky man I am today,


Even before the noon hour dare arrive,
a shocking delivered by an electrocardio telegram,
thus instigating a product recall of Shakespeare’s blessing season,
drawn from a stale teenage memory storage fast depleting

"This above all: to thine ownself be true"
which denies the false escape
of being false to any human

ingesting this thrice lucky man observation
into the internal inward-facing telescoping observatory,
where I map the true course of the
star-stories
well held in the constellations of my life,
never forgetting that this holistic ecosystem that is my
mind~body must evaluate the truth of this claim

its veracity will differ when assayed by
the big toe of my left foot from whence the poetry comes,
as well as those other interfering guys,
body, mind, heart and soul,
then re-evaluated by the internecine warring of those whiny parts,
the tongue, the hands, the eyes saying me, me,
that perforce means a dynamic constant changing
of every thing

in other words,
thine own truths are fluidity ever changing,
the mapping of your blessings,
best done in pencil with room
for expansion, reversal, and misdirection

have I lost you dear reader?

My Left Foot squeals,
fools, you just hammered
three more nails in the coffin of his depression,
where woes and toes know the inevitable repetition of the troubles he has already deemed, and now foreseen are yet,
ladies in waiting to take him to the tower

My Mind says
in obvious aspects people, you are 100% correct,
but the Inquistors are not fooled, patient in their queries;
My Body simply asks, err, does that make me look fat?
My Souls defers with a yada yada, not my problem, deal with it...

The facts tranverse and reverse,
Ah, the truths of my blessings
As much confusing and last defusing

The little drummer boy marches me in reverse retreat,
while shouting out in time a marching refrain:

Luck can be stored, used then, never more,
Its algorithm, a lifetime calculation,
Woe is me, thrice, deemed lucky,
But the map of my blessing reveals my positioning,
At the map-edge I stand, the last border be just ahead,
Seasons, maps, blessings must stop to journey,
What others see upon me outward, outdated,
All maps, all blessings are black-line bounded,
So too, am I, bounded, confused and confounded

The algorithm computes my nine lives are now radium depleted,
The shell, the shell no longer can be fired,
Even the half life has evaporated, used,
Though it looks fit, the luck has eroded, the feet now touching
My map edged in black, its legend, of use, never more


November 2017
Yet here, Laertes! aboard, aboard, for shame!
The wind sits in the shoulder of your sail,
And you are stay’d for.
There; my blessing with thee!

And these few precepts in thy memory
See thou character. Give thy thoughts no tongue,
Nor any unproportioned thought his act.
Be thou familiar, but by no means ******.
Those friends thou hast, and their adoption tried,
Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel;
But do not dull thy palm with entertainment
Of each new-hatch’d, unfledged comrade.
Beware Of entrance to a quarrel, but being in,
Bear’t that the opposed may beware of thee.
Give every man thy ear, but few thy voice;
Take each man’s censure, but reserve thy judgment.
Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy,
But not express’d in fancy; rich, not gaudy;
For the apparel oft proclaims the man,
And they in France of the best rank and station
Are of a most select and generous chief in that.
Neither a borrower nor a lender be;
For loan oft loses both itself and friend,
And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.

This above all: to thine ownself be true,
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.
Farewell: my blessing season this in thee!
Martin Dove Oct 2018
The lives people unravel
The weak ones they stifle
Cruel, but it’s how society works
An algorithm with the precision of clockwork

An algorithm in me
An algorithm in you
Algorithms intermingled
An Allgorithm that's above you
And beneath you
Within you!
Its the definition of existence
as far as we see it.

To put it precisely
The universe is synonymous with Allgorithm

Life is just part of the bigger picture
It's the Milky Way and your diction
Not to forget man-made fiction

Everything
a peace
Of a bigger puzzle
Following set rules
one deriving from the force of the other

If we look deeply
We can get a clue
But theories often fall apart
If the adhesive that's used is glue.
Ian Johan-Gomez Mar 2016
I feel a grim satisfaction as mud splatters on my white shoes.
What an appropriate metaphor for early adulthood.

My problems are not my own.
The sociological imagination has never
seemed so applicable.
We’ve all been dosed up
On dashes of passion,
splashes of intelligence
and just enough anxiety and depression
to approach existential nihilism and
We’re fed these lies of individuality but
We Know
we are only products of our youth and culture,
ones of many in the long production line
We claim
We are Art,
but We Feel
we’re just generated from streams of code,
prepared to fight to the death for
some algorithm that doesn’t even matter
And so I protest
I can’t just be a number
I am flesh and blood,
my knees are buckling under the
weight of this artificial perfection.
I’m not just a number,
My eyes are staring at the
the marks that
determine my worth, knowing
success is my only option
i am not just a number
My sanity is sinking and
drowning and
constantly fighting to stay afloat
But I am not just a number. -
My mind tells me I’m not making it--
How are these other people making it?
I’m determining my worth
on sets of standards that are as worthy as dust
And it is with these standards i am told
I am just a number.

I feel like
I can no longer speak
because I’ve been
shouting
at the top of my lungs
I AM NOT JUST A NUMBER

But my voice
is too quiet
And the world
is too loud.

I’m so tired of trying to be heard.
Yet these words still sound better
when I scream them,
not just scrawl them down
on scraps of paper.


for someone so happy
I'm so very angry.
for someone so happy
I'm so very sad.
Ken Pepiton May 2
to me? Real with a certified S.King filtered -ly mod,
by god,
as the oh myers say. On Writing sans Shining.
Needful fiction,
Liars prosper. Okeh. Thus,
the poor we have with us, always.

Truth t' tell.

Entshallah allathat, OMG samesame
good mastah willin' creeks don't rise

Do the work. Come Sunday, someday,
we, all us, say.

You ever finish your own work one day and jest

sit back lax - lacks a daisy, taken easy,
laxative action,
gut synapse
synch-up, cinch that saddle on my wildest
old Nightmare, beat my plow
back to a oil drum,

set some feats t'dancin' in some ol'lady minds.

old man's angels seen t'be jiggin' on
the head o' some pen
in the hand

worth two in the bush.

Who know what ever mean, okeh.

period. point made signal.
that was said and it's writ.

set it aside, let it dry

crumble to dust and be scattered to the five great gyres
to settle
as sands
ifiable quant, to mortal mind, weighable
any worth assigned as
sought or ought,
a grain,
a mote,
as seen with five gee augmented
lenses
prestandards beeing raised in the buzz
from Utah

as an erranded boy's sail bike lifts into if
from the saline shore.
Bike tires adhered to passive-ly

by molecular
memories of being
in truth, as if
once and ever,
salt of the earth, see in the distance,
Lot's wife

as tiny as can be

Na and CL, for ever,
deja wuwuish it were possible… dream… or die…

no don't. There is a reason. I for get it can not right now but these
keys can be

used right by the sober one in the batch.
God, I love this process. This is the work. Living.
You can do it as long as you can pay attention…

selah

then it, the algorithm, I'll go rhythm, pauses,
Spelchkovian spells masters seem sorry we ever agreed she'd
leave me leavened as dust
lying around
on white linen
in the streets of Laredo, as cold as the clay,

back in the day,
we sang that song in school. We sang
in movie theaters, along with a
bouncing ball and other people,

big bio jump here. My step-brother was murdered,
and it never seemed relative…

my father married a wombed man with one leg,
whose family sang along with Mitch,

and played Spit in the Ocean.

Such experiences ificate possibilities few knew
some survive.
There could be a contributory flow…

This ever lasting book of life.
See, a shore, sand bar
snag a thought rainbowing true to you

hang-ups from way back

Any boomer bubble popped too soon. Manifest at will.
P-pickup from scratch and
make a point
to infect the next pun unknoticing kid,

old -time slow hand-eye coordination special ed, Big Ern,
kicking chalk dust in far right field, noticing
patterns
in the leftmost vector straight home--

grand children, for the joy of knowing they happened,
caused,
to all outward appearance,
by my survival of several unbelievable

periences ex nihilo only
if "It don't mean nothing".

link link link something has broken, what do we con tribute tributary flow
too dammed salty, got to puddle around

waiting. waiting. waiting for one point
to be made
edged on all angles, to each mea culpa assured
quantifiability of reason,

inquizical sequence surpast
glistering

whetted and furbished for ever,

the keenness
the cut, precision decision

and how swiftly forms the scab,
a touch,

capillary seals, the grain, at HD,
one pixelish crystallin charge

change that,
by taking thought. It does nothing to your stature,

think allusive butterflies of lifenshit

it gets tiresome. A body wants some rest from ever
meaning ever and never was known
or heard
a dis cora zone age word, like

troglodyte or luddite Denisovan bracelet breaker,
ropemaker union with certain silky
threads
to which a little leaven always sticks
as would caterpillar spit.

Meandering, right, it's the play. My role.
I manifest the dance
as seen on the surface, from Jim's POV,

then my own POV,
then my own rivers of no return,
tribute

'ary a day goes by I don't re call that feeling,

flow is moving paster and paster the walls are
higher
shade deeper
colder'n'hell fersher, rapids.
Ah,

Kern River, I remember this.
Almond trees, Columbus clouds…
Hey, readerman, paperbackwriter wannabe,

we survived. What'sa-hell, right's right.

clap. there is a - an  STD joke there.
But those aren't funny

right,
standup guy says right's right, does a
Johnny Unitas stiff arm
and gets a case of
clap from the left, worse than meaningless

neo **** non clapping on the right.
Repent or perish.
****** if it don't feel good to say that.
It's true, once you know,

Gertrude Stein, I got it from her. Lesbian Jewish leaven
in passover brownies dipped in Mogen David,
she made me stand and say a rosary.

By any other name,

a rose is a rose and so on
it's like when the universe sends little blue men in cheesehead hats with...
clues from the fat guy on the subway in Heroes... "Do the Work. make war not art... life is a sequel we already got paid for. Maybe." I just learned hp stars out *** not if spelt o*m*g
Mark Toney Oct 25
Al created the algorithm
One late night as Tipper danced with him
The thought came by chance
As they freestyle danced
Initially dubbed "Al Gore Rhythm!"
4/17/2019 - Poetry form: Limerick - After all the buzz in 1999 about Al Gore creating the internet, I thought it would be fun to write a limerick about him creating the algorithm too ;) - Copyright © Mark Toney | Year Posted 2019
Nat Lipstadt Apr 16
every poem is a test of character,
holy/profane all the same,
algorithm entirely humanized-you,
the elected words cannot be voted out of office,
by a recall petition, regardless of
constant corrected incorrectness.

sorted by size,
nocturnal alliteration,
do they sound in the dark
like your bleeding or you’re breathing?

holy/profane all the same,
Gertrude truth is a truth is truths,
you think my name matters?
Artificial Idiocy. Everyone poem faceted,
a chip off the the naming blockchain idiot.

when I imagine-lie,
it is a truth in and of its own
holy/profane.

call me baffled.
that is a god enough
one word summary.
and so true.

baffling perplexing cryptic and opaque.
in all honesty.
if you’re reading this, you are
testing my character.

what have you found, or even, lost?


in the midst of the characters is
character
10/26/@m/2019/16/april

inspired by Leonard Cohen
Lynn Hamilton Jun 21
God
Of
Decipher

Tell me

Who
Am
I?

Who
I want
To
Be?

Algorithm
Eyes
Are
Rolling

With
Dismay

All
Over
Me

God
Of
Decipher

Answer
Me

I’m
Listening

On
My knees

God of Decipher why do you not speak?
Soles Oct 2018
I am a walking target, bull's-eye,
Easy prey of this millennium.
I am a number, you want my money, I want the attention.
Spew your crap at me, make me beautiful, clean, worthy.
Desperate I'll relinquish all I have, my multiple identities, my sanity.

Only 9.99 a month, click here!

Which one will I be today?
Please upload them in the cloud, algorithm me for later, sell me on the bitcoin market. I am a good, a gain, capitalist surplus.
For I can freely pick and choose in this techno democracy, Silicon Valley guinea pig.

This poem will continue after the ad...

And I'll expose myself for this audience, my wants and desires, the coffee I drink, the pills I take, my children and the children of my children.
They'll drink sewage water, bathe in acid rain.
And I'll build arguments on why I bore them to this Earth, tell them stories of better days.
Johnnie Woods Apr 2018
Consciousness, a cruel joke,
an error, maybe.
Reality isn't real.
It's thought otherwise,
because we got used to it.
As the science tells us more,
we can dig deeper
to find - lack of sense?
I find that accepting a god
Is a HUGE shortcut
in the algorithm.
All in a chord
A well deserved award
At times a lonely life
With its strife
Captured in song
Made us feel as though we belong
A life of good
Where we stood
Observing truth and wonder
Of how you did not squander
It’s rhyming with rhythm
Life’s body algorithm
Of finding purpose where we stand
In this not so distant human land
All in a chord
As our heart strings poured
A connection we must not dismiss
As our souls distantly kissed
All in a chord
As remembered on vinyl record
Copyright © Marigold’s Fever 2019
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