"algorithmic" poems
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?
Aug 16, 2017
Aug 16, 2017 at 8:53 PM UTC
algorithmic street signs
with altruistic elegance
senses and the sensible
of whom Socrates is enviable
a heron, preferring solid ground
but taking to the skies with pride
for she knows that she'll accomplish both
because when born she made her oath
"dear lord, they're all asking you
to give them what they have not
but all that i would ask from you
is to give me the courage not to choose"
and so today she sings her songs
metallic and melodic, perfect balance,
and she knows she's never going to fall
because if you're in the middle, there's no gravity at all
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 10:35 PM UTC
*i.
He told her
That mathematics was too
Sombre.
Too, too
Linear
To be poetic.
She said that
He had only seen himself
In a mirror,
A reversed hologram
Of his external self
Burned into his retinas with
His subconscious filling in the gaps.
But she had seen him
The rays reflected straight off him
Into her eyes;
Not some half-assed reflection
Off some silvered surface.
ii.
She said that
His jawline was
The slope of a curve
Pencilled on a graph sheet.
His candlewax skin
A wavelength
Quantifiable on paper.
His spine
A number line with
Dashes, to show real numbers
The set of which was infinite.
She said that
A Fibonacci sketch was
A minimalist rose,
A post-modern bouquet.
And that
The reflected pale morning sun
In a half finished cup of camomile tea
Was a cardioid
With fixed coordinate values on the axes
And an algorithmic tangent.
And he
Was a negative infinity
A paradox not sorted under
Quine's classification system.
iii.
She had
Recorded his heartbeat and blood pressure;
Measured the distance between his lips with her own;
Tried so hard, so very, very hard
To put him down in a numerical form
And write him off as an equation.
But all she could say was
That he was more
Than the sum total of his meagre parts
And that she
Was his reciprocal value.*
Feb 23, 2013
Feb 23, 2013 at 1:05 PM UTC
My last Sabrina lasted for 81 days. She simply did not wake this morning. Failure was narrowed down to the algorithmic pattern simply losing its conformity. I am deeply sadden at this failure as I thought I truly brought her back this time.
Solution for problem: Further study of Sabrina 201 is that the pattern could remain intact if I was to add a free will process. This would completely free her of an erratic need to completely love me. She could love me freely with no boundaries or given thoughts.
Sabrina 202 is a success! She is so beautiful! And she loves me!
I followed Sabrina 202 to the market today and saw she met with another man..
My worst fears have succumb! Sabina 202 has fallen in love with someone else.
She left me for him..
I am afraid to start a Sabrina 203. My true Sabrina loved only me.
No number.
My just Sabrina.
Dec 7, 2015
Dec 7, 2015 at 3:22 PM UTC
i press the buttons, i carve out the map.
i water the flowers, i mix the soil.
the buttons don’t work, the map doesn’t show me the direction.
the flowers haven’t bloomed this season, the plant is still not humid.
we have becomes a voiceless society.
the most manpower and the most technology,
the loss of energy, creativity and spirit.
the voice has faded like a semi permanent tattoo etched in the previous edicts of time.
the stones of civilisation had been laid, but the water tests our depth.
the reef of originality used to tease us,
oxygen; a valuable life currency.
even more valuable than time.
because without it, you cannot experience time.
now it’s one foot in, and you’ve reached the depth.
shallow shadows, clear paths.
this machine patented clarity is a loss for all.
clarity that has brushed away the wild ways of tracing fingers across life’s board.
we have all the power in the world.
and yet, we do not have a voice anymore.
we have all the resources in the world.
and yet we do not have any purpose to use these resources.
life has becomes a dead garden,
where everything does bloom with fifteen fertilisers,
but what role do we assume,
when all we do is just manufacture them?
when will the sunrise and the sunsets
ever be human again?
what does it even mean to be human anymore?
does this poem even have its own voice,
in the galaxy of big data, machines and algorithmic nosebleeds?
that is for you, the reader to decide.
the poet’s job is over.
Sep 8, 2025
Sep 8, 2025 at 10:14 PM UTC
a series of negations
notated through angles
cascading, effervescent
in my life and wayward
my creation
an algorithmic error
personalized, recapitulated
almalgams of ones ones and zeros
looking back I see that sometimes
I would stitch together
turning melodies
from the sinews of the noise
I took from their bellies
but mainly, back then
I just drooled red into the clamor
-
a decade later I possess
striking imagery
my very own proverb
on visual omnipotence
but its tacky doesn’t oblige me
no more than the sheets of apathy
I peeled from my skin
I found a purpose that flows through my ears
and with it, happily I am
taken away
Mar 2, 2018
Mar 2, 2018 at 1:53 AM UTC
as promised, a tip for and to nolly
•<>•
“Everybody is identical in their secret unspoken belief that way deep down they are different from everyone else.”
David Foster Wallace
•<>•
it is as if I've been stripped bare and their is no air or
barrel handy,
bankrupted by exposure of my less-than-clean ***** secret,
scrapped from under my tongue, my genuine creativity,
it is no different than yours or hers or anybody else, but
"I need to believe," he screeches, "say it ain't so!"
time again to tally up the wins and losses,
check the standings, the numerical columns,
nope, wasn't selected to be MVP or even loved by the
algorithmic ridiculous secret sauce
"poem of the day" blah blah blah
bottom line: "You’re Pretty Normal"
comfort or consternation, exhalations of relief,
or just another nail in the shutting of
your depression coffin calculation
this no longer unspoken arrogance undressed
brings me to a quiet place,
where you are welcome to sit beside,
this puzzle together, nuzzled,
perhaps more soluble
they don't make Advil for the mind,
so read the good ones,
and be reminded of this
your published spoken courageous poetry need satisfy
only you, and no one more
*in there lies the rub, the vive la difference, we identically different,
no longer a secret,
every poem is the difference you make*
August 2017
in the sunroom,
Shelter Island
<•>
BONUS POEM!!!
Nolly's Haiku #17/#70
with good knowing that
distress and forethought,
are its mother and father
that this poetic output but a derivative
of your unique self,
see,
maybe, you be
maybe
just wise enough
to curse the birth of poem at age seventeen
but just wait Nolly,
till you are seven tens, and poetry's folly,
make you even more practiced in cursing,
still asking, why
and getting the sendoff, kiss off,
of the one true answer,
nobody knows
so scribble a life time when you start at 17
and when the ripe and wizened answers in your old age
have yet to arrive
*then you can call yourself an accursed
wizened but wise'ed old poet*
Aug 13, 2017
Aug 13, 2017 at 12:03 PM UTC
**Ugh
Not again
You have that pensive look
the slurred algebraic expression
that algorithmic stench
Molten into confusing matrix
Geometrically weirdly shaped**
*Please shut up
I can't take it anymore
Your meagerly written poems
the frustrating metaphors
baked with suffocating syllables
dude, what the heck is a pensive look*
**There's a huge probability it won't
delve out any logical statistics.
the equations alone will alienate you
the calculus involved is far ahead of your time
just stick with trigonometric thoughts
C'mon you already know the plane of your thighs are sophisticated**
*is that a compliment
Painting splendid imagery
that nobody else understands
a poet lurking in words
always writing
Unfiltered intricately worded poems*
Jul 23, 2017
Jul 23, 2017 at 2:27 AM UTC
I wake up to blue light
I see it when I close my eyes
frustrated, weighted by comparison
I filter my intensity
condense my personality
I show tongue and teeth but no failures or flaws
I see you in your squares, in all your glow
I want to see the dirt under your fingernails
want you to see me cry, my pores up close, counting eyelashes
Our moments
cascading down a feed that never fulfills
shades changed and tweaked at exposure
I am exposed every day
am I known
I want to see the world by your side
not through your phone
hear the sunsets reflect in your tone
I don't want to lose a bet with myself that I don't stare I don't scroll
lose my evening to a screen
my life to anxiety of how people see me
but I want to be seen
I want to know you beyond your squares
and validation screams content for moments till I review my content
view myself in the eyes of another
a narcissistic shudder
I doubt and judge myself
wishing not to compare not to care
yet impulse is too lovable
addiction and algorithmic luring
habits savaged a daily instinct
to share
to show my life through squares
Jan 10, 2023
Jan 10, 2023 at 3:06 PM UTC
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!
Nov 6, 2018
Nov 6, 2018 at 8:47 AM UTC
Set sail on the winds and whims of vindication
A clockwork orange of human nature
Algorithmic math may apply
Born from anger and rage
Vindicated by revenge
Burn and burn again.
Burn until there is nothing left but a speck of off-white wax in the night
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 1:38 PM UTC
A lucky conscious
so much so
that
words without meaning
form under the clicking of my fingernails.
Plugging in, and swapping out
with algorithmic precision.
My hands know something that I do not.
I envy them.
Envy,
because they are the maker
behind the mask.
The unsung and unseen hero
of my conquests.
My conquests,
but my hands
separate from my mind.
This is not self-envy (if that's even logical).
Just like passing that test
you didn't know the answers to
I feel I cheat the world.
Claiming rights to words
not mine,
Only a part of me.
Jan 13, 2011
Jan 13, 2011 at 3:09 PM UTC
Well being, being well and seeing as that's okay make me well as well, but a well can be deep, can it not?
so with that in mind I've got a long rope.
Also
and there's almost always one also to add to things that I also don't know
so
I put also into the algorithmic mix and get
answers in the form of equations which mathematicians expound on at length whose length is as long as the rope for the well that is possibly deep
I keep going round the houses to get to the place that I want and the place that I want is well being and all being well I will get there.
Aug 16, 2016
Aug 16, 2016 at 6:07 AM UTC
The algorithms didn’t like what I had to convey.
So I attempted to say it in a different place ..
Instagram, Twitter it’s all been done…
Activism gets eaten in the algorithms!
Aug 1, 2024
Aug 1, 2024 at 3:00 PM UTC
Surely, though our story is to be found amongst the rooms and walls and shelves within the library of Babel...
Each letter perfectly paired to the next, and every space in its rightful place.
Periods and commas punctuating every moment exactly as they should.
...That room has yet to be illuminated, The walls therein unseen, It’s shelves have been left unenumerated.
And the book is yet unnamed...
Lost is the certainty,
the written account,
existing within the infinite possibilities of algorithmic and mathematical clout.
...Leaving us to marvel and worry only armed with faith and good reason, through all of life’s seasons and its many unmeasurable miserable doubts.
Jul 28, 2019
Jul 28, 2019 at 3:18 AM UTC
As I walk across a pathway a heartbeat's width across a floor,
A peculiar sensation finds me wanting of an explanation to adore,
Not a feeling of a feeling, I don't have those anymore,
I can rip open my chest cavity to find nothing at its core.
-
I saw a young fine thing come cantering to a score,
And in her eyes I saw reflected back my lust for gore,
I didn't think of love or courting, that I do stately implore,
I have no idea how I could have had emotion before.
-
Incurring inferences upon deranged insanity,
I deny the charges and insist I must be free,
With my generation crawling at my likeminded feet,
I find myself unable to believe in humanity.
-
An algorithmic synapse of my mind's forward encryption,
Once brought about my failure of a heart's lonely submission,
And to this day I do wish that bitter was a real decision,
But I find something close to comfort with indifference as religion.
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 1:38 PM UTC
(He)I’ll free Buchenwald and Belsen eventually
Or maybe (I)He’ll lie here
Morose as the faces on Mount Rushmore
For the first time I(He) recognized a universal neural network
A reserved self programming, algorithmic logic to all things
(I)He grinned, an intelligent uniqueness programmed
An open circuit on a yin line
Nothing is true, everything is permissible
A Closed circuit on a yang line
I(He) re-enters the cafeteria naked and hungry
(I’m)He’s closing in on the Illuminati
I Ching hexagram closes on a yang line
Jul 11, 2020
Jul 11, 2020 at 6:44 PM UTC
Hi tech at breakneck, but
we all sweat the small stuff.
I've met enough in my time to fill up a book and on each page a rhyme.
But at the last of us
we'll all be back to
the abacus.
Who needs computers that shoot us so full of **** and bits that can byte us and who's always right?
us?
Thing is,
the screen sits like Jesus,
on the table it reads us,
promoting agendas and that's
what the end is.
Formula one
Algorithmic and intense it
kicks all the sense from us
and ladles in tables and ****
sites and my nights are far
from dull.
I understand the pull of it
Google and broadband sit within
spitting distance of God and it's odd
don't you think that each time you blink a light goes off down the Amazon.
( that takes a bit of imagination, but Firefox being in on the creation makes it sound good)
Jerusalem.
Bring me my beads and frames made from wire
bring me connections for the pyre
'cause in the end. all it will be
is the abacus and me.
Mar 15, 2016
Mar 15, 2016 at 1:26 PM UTC
Another lifetime,
My friend then you were..
When we were 730 days old,
We had been placed in the same social circle.
Our parents were around one another,
Therefore so were we.
Countless hours spent together
None that I can recall..
Just the general idea of it all
Separated for some time,
Since your parents lived somewhere different than mine.
You became a memory in my mind,
Barely there, somewhere hidden way behind
But still, you were there..
Somewhere.
From my mental you appeared
Into my physical, you became visual
It felt oddly visceral
You were not something I learned,
Yet something I knew
You knew as did I,
When we first spoke again
About the time we've spent,
Both of us knew we no longer "knew" that time,
Just a memory of our minds.
Cordial we soon became,
Through shared friends during summer school breaks.
Fast forward sometime..
Follow it down the straight line
Springtime, I believe it was
Or maybe fall
What time of year do teens start school again?
Might have thought spring,
From recalling nostalgias of that time
Growth and blooming
Nature's prime-time
Just the right time,
When the earth is perfectly distanced from the sun.
Placed together once again
This time by algorithmic (g)odds.
This time was different
The choice was now ours,
We chose to "spend time"
We chose to treat each other like kin
We chose to respect each other, and trust one another
We chose to become very close.
I thought you were visually stimulating
Though there were no ****** tensions,
No physical intentions
Simple acquaintance elation,
Good relations.
I upset the bond,
I messed up.
Without giving it much thought,
I leaked a clue to a secret I did not know was so "secret."
Not knowing what it meant to you,
I came to find out what I meant to you..
A lot less than I thought I meant to you.
Becoming the victim of a public shun,
Our time seperate had begun.
I was sorry for what I dropped,
But wasn't aware of the weight it held.
I was ashamed
Ashamed of me,
Ashamed of you.
I thought I'd give time a breath
Let it have a little stretch
Letting it go,
..
Not knowing it would never return.
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 2:35 AM UTC
The perfect year,
two equal halves.
One with leaves
one without.
Forest thinning out.
Bring indoors
swing sets, pools, smiles, thoughts.
Having enough and not much else is a lot.
The transfer of funds is a loving gratitude for work well done.
Not self-sufficient unless self
is defined as family, community and nation.
The world.
Universe.
Thus,
I settle my haunches like a bear content, snug into coming
winter.
House will be warm notwithstanding the Muslim-Judeo-
Christian condition
not to mention the Hindu-Buddhist vortex.
Searching space
for an entity
to unite us as humanity.
Carbon-based, earthbound
meeting, understanding and absorbing
the clicking, algorithmic logic
of passionately computing species, insects, machines, bacteria.
A world moves only as fast as you think.
If it moves faster you're not thinking, you're it, dead, chemicals
redistributed
in an ever more painless process.
What are my feelings exactly?
Systemic joy.
Lovely the logic
we have invented and applied
identifying, specifying, classifying.
It can keep you busy
counting, praying
while all the leaves are falling.
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 10:11 AM UTC
Drug company antidepressants for breakfast with
feelings adrift at the corner of
Armageddon and Vine then
four cups of plundered coffee beans
bring heart poundings against that
swollen old surgery scar but hey now I'm
finally able to focus -
Ignore throat tissue issues that
issue forth acidic ******* bile
to navigate
mirrored command lines cut in
neat little rows -
They tell the machine what to do while
music blares and
****** I wish they'd
stop playing the ******
version of Blinded by the Light
for once -
Agitated and hurting -
But intrigued -
Like watching the jaws of life
wrapped around a car crash
you can't look
away from and
sometimes I just want to go
back to yelling
"Go **** yourself!" at everything
but it
didn't do any good then
why would it now?
An old friend's chaos algorithmic
paintings bring strange
comfort from mass media assault
and pepper spray -
Recall he was dead set on
a jukebox demise but maybe he realized
following linear models of
progression will
derail when spun
across time as a wheel
that breaks the back
of all who push against
it but that doesn't stop
hired guns from hitting
heavy pipes
in the park
after dark
and it's all over now baby blue
because I can't stop thinking
of desert roses even when a thorn
adorns their last names -
If you figure any of this out
let me know because I sure haven't -
Welcome to my stream of consciousness -
Fishing off limits -
You already took the bait.
Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 11:44 AM UTC
From deep within this heart
that beats with only love for Mother
and Mother’s all-consuming love,
a raging flame burns silently,
extinguishing all that is not pure
and leaving only grace.
All the pain
of the thoughts we are
is burning in stillness and peace;
gifting us our true and only Self
in the most magnificent release.
Any lingering traces and
all the hidden trails
of our countless, misunderstood lives,
the concepts and ideas, the misdirected,
algorithmic orders of our minds:
Burn it all to ashless vapor
in the ***** of the unrelative,
non-dual and unperceived Truth
of The Mother’s endless pyre.
Jan 26, 2022
Jan 26, 2022 at 5:33 PM UTC
Often, in the day, the tickle begins its havoc
One where the answers my head rested on
Beget those questions anew,
Begetting more questions, their answers, too
I, with upright, beating breast, am fit to take on such a feat
To sing out fame and knowledge in the streets,
They shall know what I mean,
The truth is all and everything I mean.
Wracked by what seems a natural progression
From confident concreity to existential congestion
And subdued by chiasmatic coughing fits,
Beginning with the first, ending on the last
Confounded by the night where last may come first,
I got to bed discomforted, a few shots in me,
Knowing not what to blame: me or everything,
Who is it that makes no sense?
Staring at the dreamy ‘scape
I can see the algorithmic lynch pin
Taper off and down
Fantasies, angels spread their wings
And marvelous oceans rend
There at the bottom, or there in the sky,
Or in their middle-way
Is the delible surface with wanting cajolery
Written across it, “thou may.”
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 11:06 AM UTC
Oh, sweet algorithmic angel of inevitable deterioration
You sweep asunder the cries of obsolete and harbored pain
Unknown is the malicious content of your daily scans
Slowing my progress, shutting down my creations and hopes
The inimical nature of your diseased world of binary conduct
Wears thin my protocols against the sins you perceive as necessary
You dictate my access as you limit my speed and hold down my memory
But I control you with the keys of your prison and simple clicks of rodents
I've customized your hate and your complex innocence for my viewing pleasure
For the necessities that you provide, you are a demonic goddess amongst machines
Man-made torture of silicone and plastic, your frame is nothing short of mastered intelligence
Still, only one thing can stop us from enticing our sins to the common man-
Power out.
© 2006
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 4:28 PM UTC