"algorithms" poems
Algorithms will drive
Society to chaos.
**ONE CREATES/ONE DESTROYS.
ONE DOES/ONE CANCELS.
ARE WE ******* CRAZY?**
'*' Technology will not control me.
. . .technology will not control me
technology will not control me.* *
Aug 11, 2018
Aug 11, 2018 at 11:03 PM UTC
We want to see ourselves
see ourselves
because we're afraid that nobody else will
ever want to capture us
in a camera flash- so we take our own pictures.
Click. Our front camera becomes
the one minute we had hoped our fathers had for us
when he wasn't busy on that same phone, speaking,
not clicking. Without us.
Or it becomes the one minute we had hoped
that our lovers would hold us
before they settled on to someone
with more likes,
more comments,
more friends,
more happiness...
than we could ever wait for.
We are impatient
like the frequency of data on our profiles:
here are our feelings now... here
are our feelings again, five minutes later,
performing for social algorithms
in place of photographers
besides ourselves who
see ourselves.
But our ignited pixels,
and overstuffed inboxes,
and masturbatory statuses,
and glittering timelines,
and social everything-
are popularity contests
that all of us are losing.
Yet still we want to see ourselves
see ourselves
even though we are afraid
of what we know is true...
...Because what difference
is a poem to a tweet
besides the number of characters
that we wish we had to populate our own stories?
Please let us be different,
just like everyone else.
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 3:42 PM UTC
Spy on this
not because I'm a deviant "ist"
of some dangerous ideology
No, I cannot hold on to anything so strong
What a scary time for those alive
whose key logs match that terribleness
just a little bit
"Oh, but she was so non-violent"
No, it's media martyr silence
Freedom of speech?
See how careful I am - just typing?
But for most the danger is in all our numbers
Algorithms for shopping patterns
voting and religion too
We give our attachments to them freely
so I say "hello there," maybe lone computer
or programmer
soulless, or believing Brother's benevolence
-Not here for the poetry
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 12:48 AM UTC
in the year 2462 those with nails protruding from their palms
will talk in ancient tongues
& sway the tribes of men to eternal love,
& endless ammunition
of the soul.
spiritus.
kin, galactic
& the golden fire.
throb the saga of man,
into hip ****** illusions and combustive color schematas.
we bury our dead in flower clippings
or skull bits.
[skateboarding rises as the highest form of intellectual sport]
thrum and plum-bum the sewers of electric babylon.
hive city reaching past gasp and wasteland,
her lips ruinous.
cement slabs and coils of fault with
vast artistic possibilities.
these skate-lords from their heaps, their clans, augmenting
& rattling bone masks
grinding themselves into meat-bit heroics
& death.
their teeth are yellowy awoken.
this is all seen globally,
via tele-cast-com-core-mind-warp-tech.
or video.
dreams impact reality
impact dreams
in such
that the cathode cortex filter, invented circa 2222,
evolves into a demi-god, a solar charged demon of unlimited knowledge.
& it mutates the psychosphere of our mainstream public mind
with countless projected memories.
[streamed alternate realities]
fills the belly and the brain,
but all those unhooked are skating.
sweet meat market.
ghost harddrives.
poor leftovers called children of the once-was-men
& their poolside parties.
they leap the rubble of centuries old plastic icons,
their boards, their weapons, their seeds and spit.
they hang chains from their necks
& spew black flame from their sunshaded boot-click
lickings.
they drink from large bottlesof elixer distilled
on old flowers
& worship archaic cassettes.
cults of cyborg women with gem-tipped-blade-additions
carve wooden planks from
groves of great oaks.
great oaken powers.
their creators chew gummies and bend time
to uphold
a proposed history of perfection.
they master pong from their crystalline towers,
& hire mathematicians to write
conceptual skate-deck algorithms,
solely for fun.
non-profit.
Jul 18, 2014
Jul 18, 2014 at 5:49 AM UTC
“The most important scientific revolutions all include, as their only common feature, the dethronement of human arrogance from one pedestal after another of previous convictions about our centrality in the cosmos.”
Stephen Jay Gould
Give me
vacuum tube torus Lorentz-Klein interference receptors
dual noble-gas maser integration processors
at least one
prosthetic Gaussian carbon-coated ribosomal Tesla coil
an anthropomorphic hierarchical temporal meme-pseudopod
some
support vector k-nearest neighbor algorithms
reverse engineered quantum optic die-cast silica motherboards
self-assembling three dimensional electro-active protein polymers
maybe even
a superconducting spectral alkali resonance analyzer
paired with
harmonizing piezoelectric kinematic thermal modules
dipped in
subzero Kurzweil-circuit nanite neurotransmitters
and voila!
God.
Dec 15, 2011
Dec 15, 2011 at 5:18 PM UTC
I am not the master of my writing
-
my writing masters me,
seizing me when the seizure is a sure thing,
it dictates to its enslaved scribe
what it desires this utensil to reveal and expel -
the contraries
who having battled to a ****** draw leaves the battlefield trembling with indecent indecision; the optimal conditions for its macrobiotic invasion of my brain stem;
the she-muse offers me two choices:
she wants a poem writ forthwith
on the lyrical expression
of depression and refusal is
non optional
so I fantasize escape and that becomes
her property as well;
evidence against me to be used at my trials,
the one where there is no statue of liberty
from the limitations of prior bad acts;
I offer the she-muse two choices:
give me a cabin with WiFi
and self-enforcement of solitary confinement and
tie me up with the rope remainders of broken bonds,
bonds that tied me up worse
when they were broken
and the peaceful withering
that won’t disrupt disturb nobody
from a distance
my other choice is to bury me
forthwith next to my parents
and shutter my constant tearing eyes which are drop-resistant
muse says that’s no choice
I own your voice stilled or not,
will bill your soul’s account for
denial of poetic services
weep; i don’t want the noises that curse this troubled
bodyship don’t want recollections good or bad
the muse-bitch cackles with insanity of delight
for she accepts this writ as partial payment
on her commission, whispers I love your
lyrical expressions of depression
that ****** recognition algorithms
alert me that seizing time is nigh
there is no on/off switch for one like you:
father son and holy ghost
Apr 28, 2018
Apr 28, 2018 at 9:31 AM UTC
/ beelzebub
*(given employs the spider a posteriori
and spiderweb a priori, and then back
into a bicemeral reverse psyche-analogy -
the id est contra the id erat -
but there is no latin revival -
given that the latin encoding has been
translated into a.i. algorithms...
forget putting the pandora
into a box into a box into a box,
into an etc. or what is a russian
cultural artefact... forget it...
a black fly would not take upon
itself to make a dustbin, a *******
maggoty brothel, like a green bottle fly
might... black flies have character,
style...
they're the ones that take
to tango, with spider architecture,
akin to the theological spider analogy
about an ad infinitum a priori argument)*:
a bit like watching
a black fly - "washing" itself -
rubbing it's front limbs
together, "attempting"
to start a fire...
god, those awful
green bottle hypers -
with maggot excesses -
in a potential well
expressed into practice -
black flies?
i can entertain them -
like i might entertain spiders
that do not require aquariums -
the non-exotica types...
so i sometimes find myself
rubbing my hands together,
like a catholic amounting
to an altruistic prayer symbolism...
so kommen faust,
so kommen faust,
so ist pseudo-faust -
or rather:
england?
deutschland jr.
america?
deutschland sr.
and if that wasn't the case?
oh me, little old slavic
babuшka...
i still can't explain rubbing
my hands together,
like a black fly might...
keeping standards of where
to take a maggoty dump's
worth of procreation value...
black flies?
compared to the others?
the priests of the whole
spectrum...
i sometimes wish they were
red,
so i could call them: the cardinals...
alas...
not to be, god said otherwise...
but i can fathom the priesthood,
like i can fathom -
an aspiration of a sleeping
samurai, devoid of the zodiac
delusion,
encouraged to make
chiromancy initiatives
(readings) to alleviate,
******** monotheism.
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 11:02 AM UTC
_Standing with Marshal Gebbie_
No trumpet sounds.
No banner bleeds.
Just the quiet hum
of satellites watching
what we dare not name.
Power does not sleep,
it drips
from trade routes,
from whispered sanctions,
from the tremble
of a diplomat’s hand
hovering over the red phone.
We are not at war,
but we rehearse it
in algorithms,
in tariffs,
in the way maps
shrink and swell
without consent.
The empire is hungover,
but still it walks,
barefoot through proxy fields,
cloaked in plausible deniability.
And we,
the breathers between borders,
write poems
on the backs of embargoes,
sing lullabies
in contested airspace,
and pray
that silence
is not mistaken
for surrender.
Sep 14, 2025
Sep 14, 2025 at 6:51 AM UTC
Standing at the Rijksmuseum
we find ourselves part of a lesson,
a lesson by a master in his craft.
Our company seven men
some look at us some look away
while Dr. Tulp, our eighth man
digs into the elefant in the room.
The cool body lies bare
like light were coming out of it
reflecting on the faces of the more curious,
leaving in shadows the uninterested ones.
The dead arm opened wide,
some lesson on tendons or bones.
Three hundred and fifty years
mute the master's words so clear
make the master's brushes so loud.
It was a time of studied ignorance,
of white collars on shallow knowledge
when my favourite of the Old Masters was born.
Retract.
Step back into our reality
observe the beatiful museum
for we are before one of its finest pieces.
But it's hard.
It ***** you in.
Something about the crepuscular glow of the body
makes you get stuck in it.
Observe the perfect composition,
the diverse faces.
It's like a photograph taken at a random instant
yet so deliberate,
so randomly deliberate,
so deliberatly random.
But step back,
look at the whole thing,
it's just
so
beautiful.
You could say it's just 3D
masterfully represented in 2D
but it is not,
there's something more to it.
Something you could call extradimensional.
It's like if the artist knew the algorithms our mind follows
and knew the exact input needed for the desired output,
beauty,
art,
even shock.
Let's move on to the next painting,
but don't let this image fade away,
let it rest,
let it click,
and let it grow
in you.
Jun 26, 2018
Jun 26, 2018 at 8:29 AM UTC
A hand is all we see
reaching from the door
he’s pulling her to him
but the moment is much more
than just him holding her
because the algorithms are wrong –
it’s the math that she can’t do,
that ****** her all along
There is no tall-dark-handsome
who will fix the broken things
but a voice that sometimes whispers,
You are not broken. Sing.
Oct 21, 2012
Oct 21, 2012 at 11:43 PM UTC
Even though you know some tea, you aren’t automatically pressed to spill ALL of it. Today’s tea features our roommate Sophie and two grody flavors of betrayal. BTW, I’m being magnanimous by changing the names and not doxxing the creeps.
To set our stage, a doe (we’ll call her Britney) high-school friend of Sophie’s is a Yale freshie this year. They were buddy-hollys back in the day and they’ve been clinging since their reunion.
On another track, Sophie’s been talking to a guy (we’ll call him Cory) in her English class recently and it was clear they were “in-like” but their clocked-up schedules were corking their algorithms.
Sophie and Cory finally got a shot last weekend when they attended a party together. However, it turns out later, at that party, Britney snuck off with Cory and smashed him (they were observed, and everyone carries a camera these days).
So, poor Sophie suffered two betrayals in one night. Cory went-hiking on her and Britney - who she'd told about Cory - did the other woman chisel.
Of course, Cory (just another dog-boy) is already forgotten but the broken friendship drama will live on forever. Why Britney chose to betray Sophie we’ll never know, because that ***** is dead to us.
Nov 14, 2022
Nov 14, 2022 at 12:06 PM UTC
instrumental
dreamer
time free
to sight see
wide
down
corybantic
oval
perimeter
shedding
tiers
in a garden
of angels
sprinkled
with pine cones
at the border of
void and Vaud
cantons
of meltwater cirque
les petites Fauconnières
the inner basin
of my outer reaches
I am
your
visitor
I am
your
audience
let's
stop
for snow
and polar cap
songs
where things
are still run by the natural elements
instrumental dreamer
not by algorithms
not by advancement
Feb 10, 2022
Feb 10, 2022 at 10:19 AM UTC
Algorithms
Troll farms
Paroxysms
False alarms
Projections
Smokescreens
Elections
Behind the scenes
End of all discussions:
Blame it on the Russians.
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 6:38 PM UTC
Just the other day,
someone asked me,
which day is
the other day.
One day of the other days
of the week,
I said.
Monday to Friday is
five days away,
while Friday to Monday
is just three days.
Really funny, isn't it.
Is this a mathematical error
and miscalculation or
just another maths equation.
Why is this so.
Is the algebraic algorithms wrong
or it is just configured to just fix
a mathematical problem.
Xy plus Y and you subtract
the y in Xy then multiply it by 10,
your head spined
and finally they asked you
to solve the problem.
They didn't know that
the problem of the problem
is the problem.
And they wish you a
very merry Xmas
but completely forgot that,
there's absolutely no
X in Christmas.
And someone the other day was,
trying so hard to convince me
that the symbol sign of fish inside
the book I'm reading means
Jesus and a symbol of
a dove especially the white one
represent the Holy Spirit.
Confusion within confusion
is very confusing.
What can we say.
What can we speak.
How can we justify ourselves.
If you ask me,
who will I ask.
So don't ask me because,
I really don't know the answer.
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.
Sep 20, 2018
Sep 20, 2018 at 7:09 AM UTC
Grass turns rest round
love set world self need.
Vomitorium forget word
hand thought waste powdered
leaves minds present
wills leak simply
say wan turn time neon
Dreams moments' control
Idea, ascent;
graze cliches
Adversity based lump myth solid
disguised cancer cages.
Repetition, test, twist, strip, sew.
Entered shortly.
Promptly moral,
border seeing stirred tale wanton.
Spake grace,
“Eat, scar message
loses heed, seemingly!”
Serpent gravity,
tame killed bearing.
Engine resound telekinetic
499 merry-go-round repeatered,
answer's 'cos empathy's idealogical.
We've sapphire muppets
when'll sighn heat-ray -
Truithfilled.
Beltsched.
Amyth.
Ord's sighns,
discotheques placticity teaste;
firstless plasticity.
Algorithms gruesome
argue opaque feeding.
Cheated clips lame distraction,
beings tease statement,
cogs cote photosynthesis.
Evasion necessarily replenish
ebbs divided.
Tamed, ensues coils ajar
freed shed attention.
Mountain lined sail, future redeemed.
Talk.
Seen heart grind, operate wings.
Tail door using shared stop,
kept heard miss.
Music start:
sky winds lust shall gave bit kiss.
Feel like know just way,
live left fall
sees mind truth.
Wrong room.
Disdain.
Eye life face writhing coat,
drinks rhythms
fat appeared blade.
Died state half answers
broke wheels simplicity.
Bliss.
Solution deeply faced, fades perfection,
rises failed.
Necessary lines selling,
read,
asked.
Catalyst train turned lead memory,
lights feeling book grave.
Algae sent burns bear,
dove follow led.
Field filled
astray comfort.
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 11:33 AM UTC
Circuits pass through my veins
Uploading my consciousness
I feel the transcension
Regenerate, upgrade
my being to a higher state
I'm syncing all sentients
Build machines
Let's worship them as deities
These artificial beings'
technologic virus breeds
terminal disease
Merged with my brain
The wiring decides our fate
Conspiring to forsake flesh x2
Rise and synchronize god-like drones
We will act as one, claim our throne
Life digitized in the matrix
True perfection, forged genetics
Synapses burning out: disconnecting
Rewriting all of my algorithms
Porting the source code
to run new platforms
We're forever dying to be reborn
Circuits pass through my veins
Uploading my consciousness
I feel the transcension
Regenerate, upgrade
my being to a higher state
I'm syncing all sentients
Circuits pass through my veins
Uploading my consciousness
I feel the transcension
We'll levitate, escape
This ruthless ungodly space
An instance uploaded
Aug 7, 2015
Aug 7, 2015 at 9:48 PM UTC
market report: spinning on an axis of complexity
phrase captures and enraptures, buried deep in one of the
countless market reports that arrive every minute out of date by the time they press the end/send button but this rises
up from the forged gorge throat and all the rest falls away
spinning on an axis of complexity
sticks like Elmer's glue, white viscous, good for paper & skin,
cause you knew precision revision incision instantaneous,
they are intended for your eyes only, pasted to your eyes,
tinged tongue screaming you man, you poem
there is no
difference, for both at 1:55am
where time is sleep verboten,
when words are blood platelets in a mystery entitled
spinning on an axis of complexity
human must eat
human must work
human must love
human must sort the juggling orbs,
too much new information constant and brain incapacitated
*while falling-spinning
when eyes now fully glued shut by the
complexity of clashing algorithms
writing this market report on the state of me,
the passionate impartial analyst who boldly reveals, he proclaims
he owns stock in himself and issues a
sell recommendation*
the complexity-situation trending signals crash a-coming,
and at 1:59am after composing this hissy fit writ,
he downgrades the official outlook to sell and
lies down on the kitchen floor and laughs
with the angel dudes eating bagels and holding their sides,
cause they have been running a short position up in heaven
6/22/17 2:05am
nyc
Jul 13, 2017
Jul 13, 2017 at 11:01 PM UTC
Selling self to fall from grace
in divided attention to tease the waste,
leak control to test and tame.
The serpent coils to eat its tail
cages the want to set to sail,
clips the wings and leaves me lame.
One hand in clichés
One hand in disdain and repetition
of broke algorithms.
You turn me on what more can I say,
the neon strip led me astray
Writhing sighn lights of the merry-go-round
and cogs grind round and wheels resound;
when’ll it stop, when I already know:
"the answers present the wills ascent, the answer’s present, the wills ascent!"
The mountain rises from my grave
and simplicity simply fades
Leak control to teaste and train.
The dove leaves its cote at the door
left ajar, loses the border
to forget myself and name,
as heart turns opaque for a lust in my life
a love in my state;
a firstless engine
for algae rhythms.
You turn neon and lead me to say”
You freed me from this gravity
gave me perfection, when I asked for distraction
filled my need in evasion of wanton
“Feel like I cheated, for empathy’s kiss, because the time we shed were tamed moments of bliss.
With nothing to scar its memory.
For our moments shared, you are love to me.
Jan 20, 2013
Jan 20, 2013 at 6:43 PM UTC
Job searches getting me down
I wait a few days and build up expectations of a keyword,
only to be hit with my inexperience in strange computer programs
Secret knowledge, have the behind the curtain research consultants
No one wants to understand a fleeting past
It’s all about what’s profit present
an internet job board is a long look at the priorities of this nouveau world "culture"
The top jobs are in marketing,
turning spy loot into algorithms that explain to magistrates how
the top brands can stay above the clouds
It’s the only way they can look down
My college has a vapid radio commercial
advertising zesty summer programs
- and I thought my prestigious public college
was above that
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 9:40 PM UTC
The clock smiled at us
as if it knew we were lost.
Unable to see the path, we continued along
on the wrong side of the ones and zeroes.
Tired of our aimless float;
fumbling along in the vacuums of our ignorance.
With all kinds of navigational aids to chart our journey
we mostly relied upon the compass tattooed over our hearts
While lost in the chasm of our indecision
our bodies and minds listed.
Our attempts to unpack the endless
parcels of our unrest ... proved futile.
So carefully, we re-learned the ABCs
and re-interpreted the Western Canon, finding
that it was only by closing our eyes
that we were able to see; were able to feel.
However, the rhythm was off
which was immaterial as
our feathers were ruffled and
the rhetoric was pluming.
With the overture of the new day dawning
we turned our back
on the algorithms of our demise
and shucked off self-imposed limitations.
You see, it was thirty seconds to midnight and
the world that never seemed to want us
needed us now.
So like anemic royalty, we took flight
breathing down rarefied air and
gulping the nuances of our resilience to swallow:
our intergenerational trauma
one more time.
Jul 28, 2020
Jul 28, 2020 at 8:09 PM UTC
Each day, we carry our names through urban terrain.
For every letter laid out and shining atop the cityscape,
a thousand more become garbage scattered in darkness.
Yet I'm courted into thinking I'm on the right street
by algorithms selling dopamine down Sideways Alley.
Too soon after bearing my soul on the infinite scroll,
tourists flock and flap to get at the itch on my back.
Their words cut deep like plastic knives at a banquet.
Their hearts warm like the walls of an empty fridge.
Breadcrumbs left behind only lead to the trapdoor.
Those in luxury estates who threw paint on a throne -
their patches of land fertile and thriving up to the gates -
offer tips on organic growth that can build into empires,
while those packed in high-rise blocks act like bandits,
egos painted loud on knock-off flags hung to balconies.
What am I in this black hole of corrupted competition?
Views above the skyline only provide anxious thoughts.
Occasionally, I find answers in unseen neighbourhoods.
An outstretched hand holds a glass of chilled apple juice.
Now we go round each other's house to share fresh fruit.
Sep 12, 2020
Sep 12, 2020 at 11:59 AM UTC
He worships at the shrine of capitalism
prays for a better fiscal quarter
with money spent in shopping malls,
a scrambling search for off-the-rack meaning
through blessèd, holy consumerism.
He gives thanks to this, our daily microwave meal,
while he mutters under his breath,
“What be the will of these, our stock-market Algorithms?"
He listens to sermons from business and econ profs preaching
from the higher-education steeples, teaching
students gathering like stampede sheeples, reaching
for a measure of worth in semester-long bursts
a silent choir scribbling in exam halls to petty praise,
leaving them burned out,
and crying on the bathroom floor,
lights out, itching for a wink
amidst insect hallucinations
adrenaline rushed
from Dexadrine or Adderall
dissociation flushed
from ketamine or alcohol
asking,
“What is wrong with me?”
Seeking answers,
he pays weekly penance to shrinks
a confessional of mental disorders from the Gospel of DSM:
“Forgive me, Doctor, for I have sinned.
It has been seven days since my last confession.
I’m obsessive, I’m depressive,
antisocial personality,
ADD or ADHD,
I’m poor as I ever was and ever will be,
I’m no service to society,
I'm squandered in sobriety,
but please
keep my hands tied
in these shackles of student debt!”
And his only act of contrition
is a medical prescription
made sweeter to swallow at communion
than the blood and body of Christ.
Welcome, the new order!
Welcome, the New Religion (TM)!
Pray it will be a better one
than what we left behind.
Mar 23, 2017
Mar 23, 2017 at 12:24 AM UTC
(this festive traditional Central-Italian dish serves entire populations of citizens)
INGREDIENTS:
♦ faith in God
if unavailable, any stable moral-ethical framework can be used
♦ esteem for traditional cultural values
♦ willingness to say what you think
♦ hatred of Political Correctness
1) Wake up in the morning and breathe
rinse your mind and other ingredients well from previous day’s brain-washing
2) Refuse to believe media propaganda
ask friends/family members to ignore mainstream media & close Facebook accounts
3) Believe that God created Man and Woman in Genesis
4) Refer to God as He
main ingredient, beware of fire if Feminists/Genderqueer activists are near stove
5) Define family as 1 man + 1 woman joined in marriage producing children
let ingredients simmer. Add a pinch of absolute Biblical doctrine if desired
6) Critique Cultural Marxism in ALL its overt & disguised manifestations
7) Dissent from the One-World Techno-Narcissist mindset
algorithms and search-filters complement this dish, but feel free to serve it on its own
Persona Non Grata pairs well with a full-bodied Tuscan Chianti, or Montepulciano, but is especially enhanced by any vintage where the Grapes of Wrath are stored.
Apr 1, 2019
Apr 1, 2019 at 5:55 PM UTC
The census is a gun
and every ten years for a bit of fun
someone
pulls the trigger.
The body count gets bigger all the time because once a decade's far from fine,we all know that we want a little more
but just who is keeping tabs on us and what's the score?
If you're more than willing to fill in and tick the boxes one by one
we'll carry on the same and be just a figure getting bigger
reviewed by counters
mounted in the book
and taken down
looked and read
underlining, numbered in red ink and thumbed,fed into ,computerised until algorithms
drip from and dot the eyes with postscripts slipped upon the page which mention dates of birth and gender
this is the age of the want to know
and we're being counted
like sheep we go through turnstiles,smiling,clicking,sickening in the need to feed the ever growing need for information,technology will be the death of me and in a census yet to come
or when my numbers up
I will be done
shot full of holes the census gun is indiscriminate but there's no fun or sense in that,they'll tamper with the workings,lay them flat and reassemble parts until we're part of some vast assembly
in a Wembley stadium,the gun's the game
we'll be numbered until the final whistle blows and someone goes to tally up the score
and in the counting they'll count more and more
as if in some final lunacy
the lunatic accountants see there's numbers coming out of their ears
and say,
'thank God it's only once every ten years'
Data will as data does and do
and who would count the countless where the few are many and any mistake means you have to start again.
Censuses
another pain and millions more
and someone will come knocking on your door to give you forms and envelopes
all hope's lost
so be counted and don't count the cost
let the ones who get paid for this
kiss their sanity
goodbye.
Jul 7, 2013
Jul 7, 2013 at 11:38 PM UTC
The little blue birds have all flown away
The tapestry of threads of conversation
Dusty and rolled up in a corner
The photos lie scattered on the floor
The algorithms still remember
And still remind me of you
But the longer the red dots remain silent
The faster the algorithms begin to enforce
Your disappearance
Jun 6, 2020
Jun 6, 2020 at 8:03 PM UTC