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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.

I cannot accept technological control over my life and know that I am still freely making my own choices.
ConnectHook Jul 2018
Algorithms
Troll farms
Paroxysms
False alarms
Projections
Smokescreens
Elections
Behind the scenes

End of all discussions:
Blame it on the Russians.
From Russia, With Love
Крайне левое мировоззрение неустойчиво
Nat Lipstadt Apr 2018
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-***** 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
Data Jul 2018
This island is not an invisible land,
On this land the rules are set (but not carved in stone)
The governance of process, the cause & effect,
takes precedence over that which might be newly imagined,

Therefore:

On this land, the swallows do not leave in winter
And in spring, the tūī's compete for cherry nectar,
Whorled in this murky wash, the confluence of cultural constructivism,
a paradox is inevitable, As diversity swims together
new things are formed (as if in imagination), But these algorithms
are not birthed in mind nor in spirit by magik, they are the consequent
contingencies as wakas and clippers collide in antipodean waters,
They are the sum of a conscious exploration by which unexpected amalgams are formed (and, in the fires of conflict, adversaries honed).

On this land, the earth is soaked in the blood of them
It permeates the foundation, It is drawn in by kauri root
and, at night, expelled into the musky air, By morning
it sits as red smear on dawn’s horizon, as an omen for the waking,
Though we call it pure and bright, it is this slight taint,
becoming a pungent tang, that catches in my throat with a ferric sting.

On this land, the rain falls heavily from white cloud
and the earth is sodden, The creek is swollen
and the lake is full, Out on the water, the kuia's waiata
penetrates the mist as a solemn admonition, At this time,
no bird will call, the pointing bone floats and moves against the tide,
Out here in the mist, we do not trust the ear or eye, in this adumbration
logic is bedimmed and displaced with fear...

Do you imagine this downpour purges the ground,
that the blood of the dead is washed into rivers and out
into the great green sea?
No, the fallen cannot be flushed away—
You do not dilute them with forgetfulness,
they rise in the sticky sap of the kūmara.
Do you imagine the cooking fire expunges all bitterness
from kai draw from land to hand?
No, the voice of the fallen settles on the tongue as an aftertaste of guilt.
Do you imagine the sound of their cries
is borne on wind back into the past?
No, at the edge of te kōrerorero there is a sparkle of sadness that whispers in the chief's eye…

He realises, across the water from whence came every canoe,
all ground is saturated with their blood, there is no exception, no escape,
Having tasted the battle, the old man is wise; he accepts the wero and lays his ancient mere in the mud...
                                                          ­    He bids only the brave to follow.

_________________­_____________________
­


By Data © 2018
Tūī - Parson bird. A songbird that imitates other birds' calls and has glossy-black plumage and two white tufts at the throat (Prosthemadera novaeseelandiae).
Waka - Canoe, vehicle, conveyance, spirit medium.
Kauri - The largest forest tree in New Zealand (Agathis australis).
Kuia - Female elder, grandmother.
Waitata - Song, chant, psalm.
Kūmara - Sweet potato (Ipomoea batatas)
Kai - Food.
Te kōrerorero - Conversation, discussion, dialogue.
Wero - Challenge.
Mere - A short, flat weapon (club) of stone, often of greenstone.
ConnectHook Dec 2017
Children drugged with truthless tales . . .
Unwise men embrace their treasure;
Algorithms urge the sales
In malls devoid of merry measure.

Plastic sparkles in the air;
Automotive ads turn festive . . .
Forced good nature everywhere
Makes the shopping crowds grow restive.

Corporate greed spins altruistic
Hyping goods, suppressing Christ.
Our Yuletide is their big statistic
Oversold and underpriced.

Secular beribboned fluff:
Peace, Goodwill . . .  but don't say God !
And heaven knows you've had enough;
Just download the app—acquire the mod.

Coca-Colaed, Disneyfied
You're wrapping paper for their fire;
Eggnogged, Santa-ed, thrown aside
While Babel's flames roar ever higher.

The godlessness shines right on through
Where Christmas lyrics die, unheard.
The Yule-log and the sparks that flew
Expire in embers long unstirred.

The old usurper carting toys
And Chinese knock-offs in his sled
Sets off a lot of empty noise:
Insanity in green and red.

The lurker leers and hauls his bag
(jolly antichrist distraction)
While flying Bishop Nicholas' flag:
A winter psy-ops covert action.

Only message left: go drink!
And may your cup o'erflow with cheer
Before you risk to start to think
Yourself and God right out of here.

Hallmark haloes, bygone kitsch
enwreaths the memory of the years,
Kindling maudlin sadness which
wells up in melancholy tears

For Christian culture (rest in peace)
Long-corrupted by dollar signs;
For fa la la and fattened geese
And holly midst the ivy vines;

For Dickens' gospel of the season
Anglican angelic ghosts
Pushing us beyond unreason
Toward the future's spectral hosts;

For folklore now reduced to ash
Commercial blow-outs, ***** snow;
For Saturnalian urge to smash
the store-front windows where they show;

For useless manger figurines
Passed down from some more faithful time;
For hallowed and nostalgic scenes
No longer worth a Roman dime.
I still love Christmas but its ongoing commercial secularization by corporate globalists makes me retch (into my mulled wine).

Nonetheless, like Scrooge, I intend to keep Christmas well.
By the way, that's Merry CHRISTmas.
(No Christ, NO CHRISTMAS)

https://connecthook.wordpress.com/2017/12/19/christ-massed/
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.
Nis Jun 2018
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.
Partially inspired by Nightwatch by King Crimson, in my opinion one of their most underapreciated songs, this is me trying to pass to you the wonderful sensation I felt when looking at Anatomy lesson by Rembrandt, in my opinion one of the best paintings by one of the best paintors ever.
Martin Dove Dec 2018
So let me get this straight
i'm living out my faith?
Evolution equipped me with patterns
that are impossible to break?

They can be quite useful
for they really do help
to navigate this world
and continue building
what has already been made

Still..
all we have is the illusion of authority
for
.free-will could never be free.

It’s too expensive for the universe to manifest.
It would be impossible to change the pattern of all that energy
with just the impulse of a few thoughts
Imagine
Your brain with all those neurons
All those connections
All that information
All those algorithms embedded by selection
All those mechanisms, that created your body
All the baggage...
has been dragged through time since the dawn of life.

That honed pattern of existing
could not be broken and changed with simple thinking.
So with this in mind, i'm simply left here thinking.
within a constant entropic utopia defying the gravity of the situation acceleration to the masses excelling the ratio by amassing the syllabic atrocities with velocities which are increasing exponentially sequentially the apophenic algorithms expounding the rythmes consequentially and being that "the whole is greater than the sum of its (common denominative) parts" Helmholtz resonating delineating with some summoned acts of commutative parse with the Brocas area being responsible for the frequency of the respondence corresponding to the sulcus ascending left lateral/superior temporal quadrant and please pardon the expressive digression the impression thats actually trying to be rationalized while the polynomial quotients being invariably variable and often terribly irrational at times is the fact that in language the dot produces a finite definitive, coefficiently with mathematics (as a theorem) its the beginning of the infinitive
" " accredited to Aristotle (384–322 BC)

Hermann Ludwig Ferdinand von Helmholtz (August 31, 1821 – September 8, 1894)
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.
9
My hand is cold on the blue paned glass, my eyes
To the world blowing rivers past
I can move through Time but must survive the sea
The same salt water as me washing identity
Molecules rhythmically
carving universe for stone for the teeth
and from creation Gods speak. From the rivers leeches
teethe Tungsten men weighed with society
because they are universe building dioxy-
Ribonucleuc entrails with
Time tired from insanity.  They knit tapestries.
They leak dreams from Comet tails.  
They stitch books from plants stamped with Algorithms
Of a universe girding words into Prism.
They carve words from hymn to see tummies tickle
as Religion breathes.
Dolomite caps splitting the sky into reams
Sean Hunt Jan 17
It seems to me
our times have become present perfect for many
For others our times have become tortured
and utterly imperfect

Cambridge Analytica knows
every thing about almost everyone
who is connected addicted infected
by a need to be seen and heard
by imagined minds

Cambridge Analytica
will tell and sell to anyone
who wants to be respected selected
elected

Cambridge Analytica
turned the tide in The British Isles
Their algorithms slithered
through the cyber-slush of Facebook
and found three million voters
who had never ever exercised
their democratic right
Then for gain they sold their names
to the ‘Leave’ campaign

And now those who were already rich but wanted more of it
have their Brexit
Emeka Mokeme Sep 2018
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.
♚♚♚♚♚♚♚♚♚♚♚♚
Your blood sugar is low.
Eat a cookie.
Hot homosexuals are cool
Cool homosexuals are hot
♚♚♚♚♚♚♚♚♚♚♚♚
Data 6d
These days I wear my aluminium cap with pride
it reflects the lime-light like a rainbow
dazzling predators who will fright and flight
illuminating dark corners where they cannot hide
when they refuse to fight
Though, I have heard that the Stasi still reside in my head & TV
and Mossad in my phone still listening to me
and askew glances in the faces
of the people I had known, a hand-to-mouth
obfuscation of whispered words on lips
being an incoherent Chinese dialect
that even Google eschews
it fails to render in complete pictographs
Though it's true, I surrendered everything for an updated
operating system and algorithms that understand the 'real' me

(I am made new, a shiny trinket demanding validation,
             seeking two-dimensional attention,

     I am commodified
         I am advertised
              I am proselytised by your lies)

There was a time when I imagined that empty space,
so saturated with the short and long
peaks and troughs' of outrageous spectrum,
was vibrating the waters of my mind to a frisson
of white-noised neurosis
                                       But I'm calmer now
my cocktails & carbs cajoled such wild imaginings into a state
of absolute resolute stasis which is
impenetrable,
                       resilient,
                                     transcendent,
                                                   ­         silent,
                                (trans human)

Still,
the final posture is a transmogrification
from zen-mind to metaphysical supra-consciousness
—it fills all space to observe the observers
who pull the strings
who raise the hand of the body
who lift the gun,
                            to aim,
                                       to squeeze the trigger
and I figure
from that blast, while blowback stains the murderous hands,
blood-splatter is simply biochemical information flung
at the fractal interior of this inflating balloon
(through six degrees of freedom by six degrees of separation)

Therefore,
I return to the corpse
                                 calmly
with gnosis of the killer
and in a final exhalation
I whisper His name,
                               I say,
                                       Iam.


__________________­____________________


By­ Data © May 2019
i
My hand is cold on the blue paned glass, my eyes
To the world blowing rivers past
I can move through Time but must survive the sea
The same salt water as me washing identity
Molecules rhythmically
carving universe for stone for the teeth
and from creation Gods speak. From the rivers leeches
teethe Tungsten men weighed with society
because they are universe building dioxy-
Ribonucleuc entrails with
Time tired from insanity.  They knit tapestries.
They leak dreams from Comet tails.  
They stitch books from plants stamped with Algorithms
Of a universe girding words into Prism.
They carve words from hymn to see tummies tickle
as Religion breathes.
Dolomite caps splitting the sky into reams
Akemi Nov 2018
Blanket city run along soaked in rain. Idiot Boy wastes his time visiting a passing crush at the other end of town. Slips between two houses and a metal sheet, communal refrigerator in the middle of the road filed with half-empty soy bottles.

Dead bell stop, mocking red blink of the operator. Father arrives, a mess of wiry muscles and hair.

“Hey. Is Coffin Cat here?”

“Who?” Father squints at Idiot Boy’s cap. Idiot Boy avoids eye contact.

“Um.”

Recessed in the blackness behind Father, a Figure says, “You looking for Coffin Cat?”

Idiot Boy nods.

The Recessed Figure turns. “I’ll go get her.”

Father returns to his parched body on the couch, content.

Indistinguishable forms move back and forth in the kitchen to the right. They stop their pacing and glance at Idiot Boy as he passes. Idiot Boy avoids eye contact and slips into the left-bound arterial vessel.

“So this is the heart chamber I’ve been living in,” Coffin Cat says as Idiot Boy enters her room. There is music gear. “It’s pretty comfy.”

“Oh, sick mic,” Idiot Boy says, pointing at the mic behind Coffin Cat’s head.

“I feel like a ghost,” Coffin Cat replies, falling on her bed.

Idiot Boy settles next to her. Animal distance. Intensely aware of his rain-soaked right shoe. “Same.”

Nothing comes out right, intersubjectivity a false God to mediate the impossible kernel of being, nobody can find nor express. Idiot Boy searches for connection. He glances around the heart chamber, at the music gear, but nothing grips. Four pears sit on a table by the window, their skins garish green in the harsh grey light.

Coffin Cat moves from the bed to the floor. She opens a virtual aquarium on her computer; fish eat pellets dropped from the sky to **** out coins to buy more fish to **** out coins to buy more fish. Capitalist investment and accumulation. Every few minutes a rocket-spewing robot teleports into the aquarium to attack the fish. Ruthless competition in the global marketplace.

“No! Why would you swim there, you ******* fish?” Coffin Cat yells as one if her fish is eaten by the nomadic war machine. “So dumb. ****. Why did it eat my fish?”

A knock at the door. The Recessed Figure from earlier enters the room. “Hey, mind if I join?” Their arms dangle like fine threads of hair.

“I like your music gear,” Idiot Boy says, pointing at nothing in particular.

“Idiot Boy also makes music,” Coffin Cat adds from the floor.

The Recessed Figure does not respond. They are enthralled by their phone, streak of dead pixels along a digital chessboard, minute reflection of their own gaunt face in the glass. After an extended period, they decide to move none of their pieces. A gaping coffee grinder rises out of the rubble at their feet. They begin filling it with tobacco from broken cigarettes.

“I’m surprised you’re still playing this,” Idiot Boy says to Coffin Cat. “I swear this is one of those games designed to ruin your life. Get addicted, stop going to work, become a hikik weaboo.”

“Already there, man,” Coffin Cat laughs. “Nah, this is my new job. I’m going to be a professional gamer.”

“Stream only PopCap games.”

Another knock at the door. Tired squander in an endless pacing of flesh. Strawman enters and nods at the Recessed Figure. “Hey bro.”

“Good to see you, man.” The Recessed Figure plugs the coffee grinder into the wall. “You got any ciggys?”

Idiot Boy points under the table and says “Ahh” with his mouth.

The Recessed Figure empties it into the coffee grinder. The device whirs into motion, creating a centrifugal blur, a mechanical and headless hypnotic repeat.

Idiot Boy and Coffin Cat look for horror movies to watch. The Recessed Figure empties the contents of the coffee grinder onto a metal tray. Strawman repacks it into a ****. White smoke fills the empty column, moves in slow motion like an oceanic rip a mile off coast, surface seething with quiet, impenetrable violence.

Idiot Boy refuses the first round. It’s never done him any good. Face turned to smoke and the wretched weight of a tongue that refuses to speak. Headless carry-on as time ticks through the clock face.

The door bursts open. Everybody turns as Manic Refusal or the Loud Person saunters in.

“I can’t believe it. I can’t ******* believe it. They’re selling me off!” the Loud Person says in exasperation. “First time back in New Zealand in five years and they do this to me!”

“What? What’s happened?” Strawman asks.

“Some rich ****** in Australia has bought me as his wife. I knew it, I knew if I came back, my parents wouldn’t let me leave again. Whole ******* thing arranged!” the Loud Person laughs bitterly, before hitting the ****.

“Oomph, that’s rough,” Coffin Cat quips from the side.

“No, you don’t even understand. This is the first time back, the first time back in five years, and I’m being sold to off some rich ****** who owns all the banks in Australia.”

“But like, who is this guy?” Strawman asks, pointing.

“And he’s been reading all my profiles. He has access to all my information. I don’t even have control over my Facebook profile. Grand Larson’s logged in as me, posting for me,” the Loud Person continues. “I met him once in Australia, clubbing, and now he’s tracked and bought me.”

“That’s creepy as ****,” Idiot Boy says.

“So he’s not a complete stranger?” Strawman asks.

“I can’t believe it. I can’t ******* believe it. First time back in five years and I’m being sold off!”

Idiot Boy decides one hit from the **** wouldn’t be so bad. He packs the cone with chop, lights and inhales. Smoke rushes through the glass channel, a swirl of white ether, more than he’d expected. He quickly passes the **** to Coffin Cat, before collapsing onto the bed, eyes closed. A suffocating sensation fills his body. He sinks into the chasm of himself, further and further into an impossible, infinite depth.

“Still working at . . . ?”

“Yeah, yeah. Management. Hospital. You?”

“Like, property. Motions.”

“Subcontracting? Intonements?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Mmm.”

Idiot Boy doesn’t know what’s going on. He feels sick and tries to get Coffin Cat’s attention, but cannot move his body.

“Come on. Sell me drugs, Strawman.”

“Nah. I don’t deal drugs. I don’t deal drugs.”

A strange silence stretches like an artificial dusk, a liminal duration, the hollow click of a tape set back into place in reverse. The Recessed Figure coughs and the Loud Person whirs back into motion.

“I can’t believe it. I can’t ******* believe it. They’re selling me off! First time back in New Zealand in five years and they do this to me!”

The Recessed Figure makes a noncommittal noise.

“I knew it, I knew if I came back, my parents wouldn’t let me leave again. Whole ******* thing arranged!”

Coffin Cat laughs quietly.

“No, you don’t even understand. This is the first time back, the first time back in five years, and I’m being sold off to some rich ****** who owns all the banks in Australia.”

“How about this fella? He doing okay?” Strawman asks, pointing. Everyone turns to Idiot Boy and laughs affectionately.

“Still working at . . . ?”

“Yeah, yeah. Management. Hospital. You?”

“Like, property. Motions.”

“Subcontracting? Intonements?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Mmm.”

“Sell me drugs, Strawman.”

“Nah. I don’t deal drugs. I don’t deal drugs.”

Idiot Boy slowly opens his eyes and stares out the window. The same grey light as before. He moves his arm further towards Coffin Cat, but is still too weak to get her attention. The same strange silence stretches. The Recessed Figure coughs and the Loud Person whirs back into motion.

“I can’t believe it. I can’t ******* believe it. . . .”

As the conversation repeats over and again, Idiot Boy begins to think he has become psychotic, or perhaps entered into a psychotic space. He thinks of computer algorithms, input-output, loops without variables, endless regurgitations of the same result. Human machines trapped in their own ****** loop. Drug-****** neuronal networks incapable of making new connections, forever traversing old ones. Short-term memory loss, every repeat a new conversation of what has already been. The same grey light painted upon four pears by the window.

He’s not sure if Coffin Cat’s laugh is getting weaker with each repeat.

Signal-response. The exterior world oversaturated with variables: roadways, rivers, forests, wildlife — an ever changing scene to respond to — the illusion of depth. Automatic response mechanisms reorient to new stimuli. The soul rises like surfactant, objectified fractal diffusion. A becoming without end.

But within the border of this interior world, the light stays grey. No input, no change; the same dead repeat, over and over, until sundown triggers a hunger response. Lined all along the street, a black box ceremony of repeating machines, trapped in their idiot cults, walls of clay and blood.

Idiot Boy finally gets Coffin Cat’s attention. She helps him through the house’s arteries to reach rain and wet stone, overcast skies. As he shakes in shock, Coffin Cat mumbles, “It’s cold.”

Idiot Boy sits silent on the ride home. Travels through himself. Tunnel through the body or Mariana Trench. Loses his footing before a traumatic void. Leaves the car and pukes.
ConnectHook Apr 1
(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.
Prompt #1: provide the reader with instructions on how to do something.
It can be a sort of recipe…
JaxSpade Nov 2018
Foraging
Through the atmospheric
Forest green
I found the fruit and vegetable
Of nourishment
On a cloud shaped tree
There it was dangling
In the star lit morning
Under my conscious dream

While I floated outside of my being

Answers for the cancers
That mauled and screamed
Cures for the homosaphien
Strength for the weak
I filled my basket
And both my cheeks
I saw the future standing
On the passing steets
Directing the traffic
That ran over me
I began to wake up
And lose what I'd seen
So I grabbed my pen
And recollected
This memory

#9
Number nine
Down the spine
Of sublime algorithms
And unconscious mimes
Picking at the brain
With a vultures dine
Dinner for nines
Times nine
81 times
I eight one
It tasted like knives
Where was my dream
Of honey bee hives
Replaced by a scheme of numbers
Beelined
Foraging
Through the atmospheric
Forest darkening
Searching for a light
That could shed some sight for me
I found some fireflies
Floating in the iris eyes
Thankfully hoping
They could lead me to Jesus Christ
#9
Number nine
I woke up to the scene of crime
I saw me in the mirror
Gulity of living life
Forgive me for sinning
Of everyday and time
I was just out foraging
For something encouraging
And found many things
Multiplied
#9
Number nine
Oh! How I'm
A victim
Of my own demise
Privacy is a relic
Living vicariously through a piece of blue glass
Shameless exhibitionism, our every move, thought, opinion, judgement, like, and dislike screamed into the void
Demanding validation
While the algorithms tell us what to think, buy and feel we shun reality more every day
Cognitive incarceration
Wake up!
What comes of all this is a chronic dissatisfaction, always begging for more
Hungry ghosts, you will never be satisfied
Rachel Mar 13
You are acid laced gumdrops
You are a lie behind every smile
A caveat without caution
The ephemeralness of a dream

I am the fading of ventricles
Scrawling on chamber walls
A conspiracy of cohesive illusion
A dementia of endless reveries

We are the crossing of golden twilight
Apropos to tangents and parallels
A prism of algorithms and extrapolated differences
What abstract sequence of patterns could decipher the correlation of our two functions
Oh what an elegant tragedy we aspire to be.
So satisfy me with your mystery.
We speak different languages. A dialogue of impulse and similes.
Similar to the way you moved with purpose and attitude.
I was bound to attract your attention.
I recall the falling feathers of our fathers.
Like sand washed out to sea.
Bleak eternities spent in separate parts of reality.
Reality’s basements are being washed clean.
Flooded with water and covered with the dampness of feathers.
Feet rustling on the pavement. We beg for entertainment.
Company is coming over. To discuss plumbing and retirement.
Jumper cables upon your refrigerators.
I look into your eyes to deduce the algorithms for remembering.
Your blemishes are no longer rubbing me.
Your lungs were made for pumping oxygen and steam.
Yet we keep it airtight and dry. While aliens were coming for my eyes.
Your irises were dreaming of me. Meaning is always fleeting.
So I borrowed your compassion.
And danced on the Sun. You turned into a living goddess.
But you became just a memory to me. For freedom is never free.
It’s always drifting between sarcasm and sandwiches.
And it can never EVER be found on Reality TV.
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