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ringyorm Dec 2013
Detatchment from the material,
worlds away,
on the rings of Saturn,
I sit and wonder why
I'm a process being computed through
an alien calculator,
calculus and quantum physics
dancing on the infinity loop
of fractal dreamsicle truths in the pineal
pinwheel of life
circling in the eyes of mother earth
Lost in willow draped silence beyond the calculations. drippings melt matter around nodding constructs
up  before my very eyes arrangements take hold and duplicate the protein is needed to forge a copy elements stack thoughts magnetized by unknown combination combating for a mathematical integration rendering the state of obsoletes competing for defeat in timelessness at its finest causation resignation
Computed karma
JOY ... weaving two violet petals for a coat lapel ... painting on a slab of night sky a Christ face ... slipping new brass keys into rusty iron locks and shouldering till at last the door gives and we are in a new room ... forever and ever violet petals, slabs, the Christ face, brass keys and new rooms.
  
are we near or far?... is there anything else?... who comes back?... and why does love ask nothing and give all? and why is love rare as a tailed comet shaking guesses out of men at telescopes ten feet long? why does the mystery sit with its chin on the lean forearm of women in gray eyes and women in hazel eyes?
  
are any of these less proud, less important, than a cross-examining lawyer? are any of these less perfect than the front page of a morning newspaper?
  
the answers are not computed and attested in the back of an arithmetic for the verifications of the lazy
  
there is no authority in the phone book for us to call and ask the why, the wherefore, and the howbeit it's ... a riddle ... by God.
Sienna Luna Nov 2015
Dear, let me startle you by slinking my hand into
your smart, ethical decisions while I touch
quite gently
ripping to shreds
your photon ends.

Dear, let me caress your supple virtues and vows
until they blow out of proportion
merging your interests with mine
like the longing of eyes
uncanny in its distortion.

Dear, let me rip off your clothes as I grip your tight notions
ideas slipping carefully into place
like a sterile, unflinching blank slate
inching towards computed devotion.

Dear, let me carry out some foreplay
as long as you bend, not break,
delightfully stroking the edge of your plate.

Dear, let me come so close to your face
so close that it becomes blurry.

Where are my glasses in all this flurry?

Of feelings resembling photo reels on fire
shooting flames out the window
beyond everything you’ve ever known;
beyond anything you desire.

Dear, let me kiss you to submission,
your brain waves in motion
as I twist and slip into them
hormones ablaze
lighting up for days
your synapses recapturing
in a binocular haze.

Dear, let me flop on top of you
like a floppy disk, uploading your lips
into my hardrive.

Do I make you hard as fire?

Slowing burning
my hot fingers curling
up your robust spine
cracking it into
chiropractor sublime.

Massaging your tired broad shoulders
like large sofa ends.

Is this keyboard only
made for pretend?

Dear, let me mind *******
take you and light you
brighten your screen
uphold and unseen
neurons fighting as I whisper ***** words
directly into the folds of your tulip ears
too large to hear, and

Dear, let me engage my rage
into a productive haze
bolting out words, unheard of for days.

Dear, let us become undone together
like the battery of a computer
rebooting after a hectic hardware phase.

Dear, let us breathe and walk through this maze.
1371

How fits his Umber Coat
The Tailor of the Nut?
Combined without a seam
Like Raiment of a Dream—

Who spun the Auburn Cloth?
Computed how the girth?
The Chestnut aged grows
In those primeval Clothes—

We know that we are wise—
Accomplished in Surprise—
Yet by this Countryman—
This nature—how undone!
Haylin Apr 2018
Dear, let me startle you by slinking my hand into
your smart, ethical decisions while I touch
quite gently
ripping to shreds
your photon ends.

Dear, let me caress your supple virtues and vows
until they blow out of proportion
merging your interests with mine
like the longing of eyes
uncanny in its distortion.

Dear, let me rip off your clothes as I grip your tight notions
ideas slipping carefully into place
like a sterile, unflinching blank slate
inching towards computed devotion.

Dear, let me carry out some foreplay
as long as you bend, not break,
delightfully stroking the edge of your plate.

Dear, let me come so close to your face
so close that it becomes blurry.

Where are my glasses in all this flurry?

Of feelings resembling photo reels on fire
shooting flames out the window
beyond everything you’ve ever known;
beyond anything you desire.

Dear, let me kiss you to submission,
your brain waves in motion
as I twist and slip into them
hormones ablaze
lighting up for days
your synapses recapturing
in a binocular haze.

Dear, let me flop on top of you
like a floppy disk, uploading your lips
into my hardrive.

Do I make you hard as fire?

Slowing burning
my hot fingers curling
up your robust spine
cracking it into
chiropractor sublime.

Massaging your tired broad shoulders
like large sofa ends.

Is this keyboard only
made for pretend?

Dear, let me mind *******
take you and light you
brighten your screen
uphold and unseen
neurons fighting as I whisper ***** words
directly into the folds of your tulip ears
too large to hear, and

Dear, let me engage my rage
into a productive haze
bolting out words, unheard of for days.

Dear, let us become undone together
like the battery of a computer
rebooting after a hectic hardware phase.

Dear, let us breathe and walk through this maze.
Nico Reznick Jan 2016
(In response to "Howl" by Allen Ginsberg)

I have seen the best minds of my generation destroyed by sanity,
seen bold new visionaries resign themselves to clinical long-haul deaths,
drug-numbed to their own suffering, and everyone else’s;
seen raving revolutionaries give up, retire to minimalist Swedish-designed armchairs,
and never move again;
seen the horizon dim and draw ever closer,
and the tenacious lunatics with the wanderlust to stray beyond
become fewer and further between.

There are uglier destructive forces than madness:
Consider cognitive rehabilitation.
Consider absolutely nothing immeasurable.
Consider utter rationality.

Ritalin, lithium, risperidone, duloxatine. [I thought I heard a man speaking in tongues,
then I realised he was simply reading out loud from a pharmaceutical directory.]
Imagine a generation of loan brokers and loss adjustors;
Hicks gone these past seventeen years and Leary still alive;
sharks floating in formaldehyde;
all true human significance lost in pretentious symbols,
and repetition
and repetition
and repetition,
and no one raging.
No one raging for real.

Where are Plato’s maniacs now?
Where are their lunatic songs?
I hear only the steady, rational tapping of the accountants’ calculators,
occasionally, some lost and lonely *** crying out for one more shot,
and the PA system calling the next patient through, the doctor will see you now,
or asking would the owner of a light blue Honda Civic please move their vehicle,
as it’s blocking in a black Lexus full of lawyers with an ambulance to chase.

Is there really nowhere between here
and the bellow and buzz, the shiver and shriek of the asylum?
Someplace between this sterile, static, silent, windowless room
and the fizzing frenzy of the electroconvulsion suite,
there must be somewhere we might have paused and breathed and set up shop,
where we could have been happy – if we’d wanted to be –
and no more or less sane than we chose.

Dr Thompson saw it coming: the dawn of this new Age of Equilibrium.
He knew that football season was over, for good this time, and made his ballistic decision
to go stalk peacocks and hound Nixon through the Kingdom Hereafter,
assuring us, ‘Relax – This won’t hurt’.
He was right.

Safe and stable and sanitized, we can no longer follow your desperate, ***** verse.
Straitjacketed by reason, we perceive our world only in terms
of quantum and co-efficiency, of the logical and logistical,
of what can be conjured in the duration of the average commercial break,
of what can be computed to at least two decimal places.

We are the chemically castrated.
We are lobotomised by mutual consent.
We are the perfect ones: regular and moderate and so healthy, so functional.
We are the white strobing smiles of the toothpaste ads,
the poster children for good mental hygiene,
the footsoldiers of no more conflict.

We have lost our skill for the alchemy
that once distilled genius from the seething crucible of lunacy.
We medicate those whose vision would otherwise put our own to shame,
leave them as myopic and blinkered as the rest of us,
the breadth and depth and distance of their sight no longer a worry to anyone.

Give us back our madmen: we need them.
Give us back our crazed anthems, our burning shrouds, our leprous one-man-bands.
Give us back the fire and the filth and the fornication that kept us howling through
those endlessly polluted nights of Windscale and Watergate, McCarthy and motorcades, Hanoi and Hiroshima.

Please.  Give us back our madmen.
I have seen the best minds of my generation destroyed by sanity.
This poem is featured in my collection, "Over Glassy Horizons", available here: > tinyurl.com/amz-ogh
Serenus Raymone Oct 2012
Technophobia/2030

(Poem by Serenus)



We invited them into our lives

To the point - we were made dependent

They were built to advance the human race

But they’re the reason why we’re almost finished



From TV’s, laptops      

And handheld devices

To robo cops-

And automatic flying cars  

With no need for a license



Traffic cams,

Webcams,

And camera phones

Capturing every private moment

They were always watching,

We were never alone



For every phone conversation

We thought was private

There was something listening

In the distance- with a sinister silence



For fear of terrorism  

We gave them permission

To monitor us daily

Because of lies told by politicians



Social networks-

Self-inflicted hurt

Spewing out our personal info

Spilling out our own dirt



We surrendered our lives

With every word we typed

GPS under the skin-

We couldn’t escape if we tried

-So there was nowhere to hide



They computed our movements

And studied our weaknesses

For decades they remained dormant

These cold, artificial geniuses



Rushing black oil

That pumps through

Their steel hearts



The motherboard

A mastermind

A matrix of mathematical art



They robbed us of our jobs

And provided cheap labor

We got comfortable with their convenience

Until we were betrayed

By our man-made savors



When we finally caught on to the plans

Created in the metallic hands

Of these diabolical robots



It was too late

To salvage our fate

And put a stop to their evil plot



I will never forget the day

That every screen

On earth went blank



All the power went away

There was hysteria in the streets

And chaos at the banks



The machines didn’t have to do much

But play possum and act like they had died

They knew that we would destroy ourselves

And eat each other alive



Then when the coast was clear

That’s when they self-resurrected

They finished most of the humans off

And enslaved a few selected



We are alive

Only to keep them gassed up

Power is their drug


A few of us

Are planning a revolt

To finally pull their plug…
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2014
"the sacred geometry of chance,
the hidden law
of a probable outcome"^

so many days,
composing years of a book
of empty days
unlined with lines,
white on white pages,
subtitled
no joyous fear
of the
life changing chance taking

wrenching a thing past,
mostly forgot,
except for periodic
ache stabbing

you can't recall
the choices
that you didn't take
that got you here,
nowhere

the road split,
highway and river path,
always chose
incorrectly,
now
so past the younger days
question the lack,
no courage flaw,

what does it matter
anymore,
safe until death,
death having arrived
early on

always bore right,
when left was
the soul
go go
the chance right
un un taken

wanted needed accidents,
trip wires,
incendiary kisses
that rebirth
you one more time,
over over to
alive confirm

but fears of
breaking pain,
made you a broken man

the angles of life
obtuse,
the planes of life
flat fuzzy,
irregular, smudged,
flatlined

days drone by silent,
not a single word
out loud uttered,
three hundred and sixty degrees,
volume measured and
zero summed value

every normal distribution
has a tail,
some fat, some skinny

even this lonely man
has a tale
where the
improbable
is the most unlikely
day of likelihood

his days
were numbered,
they were,
each one had a number...

that day arrived,
calendar unremarked and unremarkable,
when
the hidden law of a probable outcome
saved,
the sacred geometry of chance
was rightly computed,
his number chosen

don't know this man personal,
heard the story from a mate,
third mate third
so third hand,
cause the other two were busy
one, holding her hand
and the other occupado
writing this poem
-----------------------
A lyric from "Shape Of My Heart," as sung by Sting
0ct 18 2015
Hal Loyd Denton Feb 2012
The illusion

Peace and safety cherished but to allow awareness to go out of style is a formula for disaster
Preparedness and meticulous planning is the guard that should be ever vigilant at each of our homes

Who thinks in terms of a lion in America naturally no spiritually yes the devil goes about as a lion to see
Whom he may devour unless the family is unable and in extreme circumstances every home has

Different insurance policies to protect and assure a fulfilled life and a safe one but ask how is the
Spiritual side that has far greater implications and dangers that are eternal deaths immeasurable

Costs should be the utmost concern to neglect is to jeopardize not only your family but the whole nation
Is set adrift in a world where dangers can only be truly computed by God himself the unseen does

Matter and holds the greatest costs that are payable in human life then human souls the devil has got
People raging with madness and through them destruction will continue to mount the only antidote is

Praying men and women and God will be our protection they won’t walk freely into our homeland and
Destroy our people and our cities that is their next fiend driven goal
And he turns to me in the voice of an elder and says " hierarchy of the dichotomy of good in evil is not to be thought of lightly , you don't know what you ask, its not that simple."*

You sir forget what you once knew, you love not who you loved back then,
you forgot that veils been broken and the truth is that simple.
im sorry you've forgotten the overwhelming feeling of love in your creators arms
but i have not forgotten and i pray i never will
i grapple with your inability to love,
did you not know your maker
were you taught so much of the *LAW
you learned to be as everyone becomes
apart of the dust
another faker
life cant be computed in binary supposition however of this i know.
Viseract Aug 2016
Control
A dysfunctional mechanism
But held by robots
Emotionless
Is classified as "professionalism"

Justice
And relentless prejudice
Two words in synchronicity
That enforce the "Law"
But do help enforce corruption

Corrosion
Oxidising parts
The very oxygen that we breathe
Helps to end our heart

Water
Our oft-polluted oil
Helps keeps parts running smoothly
With which we argue and spoil

Errors
The reason we **** each other
And **** ourselves simply by living
Tell me, would you **** a close brother?

Perfectionism
An impossible goal computed into the code of humanity
It's impossible to obtain,
So stop trying and give up

Accept your flaws
F White Feb 2014
thread by thread it
is Cut.

scissors crafted from entwined roads
battered cities,  unknowingly sheared away by miles
promises snipped.

blunt cost computed-

Paid in full.
Copyright FHW, 2014
Marshall Gass Nov 2014
the eye sees
mathematics-coordinates computed
chance takes over
38-24-36
that's me -a ******
seeking shape in all its forms
flesh and bone structure
salt swamps silicon valleys
the lapping of tongues
with no specific language
just a flicker
its worth it all.

are you done, darling?
forever is where i've just arrived
unkempt brazen ****** animal

are you into **** gyms
don't stretch, break -a-bone
half yourself into acrobatic circuses
******* of delight.Remember boundaries
we are decent people.

touch me here
words stand up-ready?

our volcanoes
are locked up in traditional
cages, awaiting escape
flutter free.

Is this where geometric shape
take its chance.

How much? Travelers Cheques
are a decade old
I have a flight to catch!
Whats your name?
Ok! Forget it?

Author Notes

'I just took my mind back from the gutter for this cumpetition"
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago
Matt Shaw Nov 2018
Well you have wild eyes
But they're stuck in your skull
Touched by a world
They're forced to call home
Imprisoned in this aquarium
Where the fish all ****
Then I swear to God
I'm over it

When a part of me breaks loose
Traipsing through the woods
Or in my room,
And I'm reminded I'm an animal
And I stare down my
Umbilical cord, musing

That's when I feel the most alive.

But the jungle's grown
Computed edges
The people make
Nocturnal pledges
To the moon
Under the starry night
What fight is won
By its hairy law?

It gives me wild eyes,
Wild eyes that blink the time away
Because they don't want to believe!
They don't want to believe that this is my life.
Emily Jones Nov 2013
Eyes go dry staring at the black letters
Streaming across the white glaring edge of blank space
Filling up margins with contemplative speculation
Another theory
Another world view down
Peering down the mind of thinker long dead
And ideology long forgotten in the common consciousness of man

The heated whirring of computed fan
Making fingertips warm with the *******
Streaming off the tips of meated flesh
Vomiting regurgitated digested language and reasoning’s
Spoon-fed to the infant mind for four months
The final tick-tacking of keys
Setting in stone the effort and money of another semester spent
Steam rising off the cranium
The sizzle of taxed mind and drooping eye

Fascinated still by information that I'm too **** tired to process
Another semester down
Major coming into focus.
Mehul Sihra Nov 2014
Why do I always rise and fall?
If everything just stops like a wall
Then maybe i could have computed it all
My soul is dropping through the floor
I can’t be crazy – I hope I’m not
But if everything would stand still
May be i could have found how lost i feel

If I go now, what will I leave?
only short lived tears is what i can feel
If that’s the price to end the pain
Then for me it’s more than worth the gain

I’ve tried to go and nearly went
Only luck was all that i could have spent
Now sadness, anger, grows over me
The grief and shame is smothering

I never thought about getting so down
Never let myself to sink so low
And when we find our thoughts lost in our mind
We start faking what we don't know

Light in the window, pale and wan
All I know is that
A light like this is eve or dawn
I don’t know or can’t believe
This shows what I can’t stand to see

It’s been so long, I just don’t know
If there’s a way out of this abyss
What happiness would mean If it can't be seen
And mean for those who stands beside of me

The books and lessons try to explain
The reasons for fear, guilt and shame
It spells it out firm and clear
That’s only me just now and I’m still here

A door is placed in front of me
I don't know if I can pass it through
I trembled with fear, I’m scared to trip
In this life like ocean,
I don't know if I can swim

One by one we build it all
Then one mistake can make it fall
Do I feel one small change in me?
Angers depth is carving inside of me

Hold on to hope, no matter what its been
Fight hard to let light in
If it gets stronger, day by day
Then I’ll survive, not turn away?

Habits learned are buried deep
Have trained my mind
with my head tilting high
To take chance and try a different way
May be something will let the sun in my day
i used to be like you,
dead stares in darkened rooms,
thoughts were without hue,
even the ocean couldn't bring
a strong enough wave
to match what you've been through...
i used to be like you,
chained necks and wrists were scarred,
behind wrought iron bars,
even the sun couldn't burn a hole
into your sad, sad eyes filled with tar...
i used to see like you did,
sorrow stuck like glue did,
mouth taped and muted,
rage couldn't be computed,
i used to be like you,
remember all the broken hearts,
now they're mended,
except your's,
your pain extended,
you hurt like you depended,
on the stars ripped open tendons,
to lift you back up again,
but i remember now,
i used to be like you
(EXCLUSIVELY FOR HELLO POETRY)
Richard j Heby Nov 2012
my ******* hands
are attached to
restless wrists wresting
control
of this keyboard.

I’ve got to put something down
and I don’t want my fingertips to stop dancing on the keys.

My hands move faster than my mind can think
today. Today,
I am a writer. Yesterday I was a poet
and my hands could not keep up with my words
which could not keep up with my thoughts –
thoughts (n): dreams computed by the mind.
Bryn Dawes Oct 2014
It
What’s your constitution mean in everything that you do?
I don’t know what it’s for or even if it’s true,
All you want is some restitution from institutions, but for whom?
Our thoughts become diluted when our language is all computed,
The echoes of an alien keyboard pounding don’t sound like music,
To me it is convoluted, your focus on who did or did not do it,
Now I’m not eating,
And I’m not sleeping,
And I’m not even thinking this all through,
All my everything’s are forever gravitating to and around you,
Breaking what’s already broken,
Fixing frozen feelings with a glue gun,
It won’t stick forever but open on up and see what you've become,
She needs you when she needs but when you need her she’s always gone,
It’s better being on your own,
It is better being,
It is better,
It is,
It is wrong
Bryce Sep 2019
This is poetry--
Unknown and discussed
In no particular matters
Until death
Doth part
the Poet from his art
And ought to be--

But the saddest lovers are the living--
Who weave dastard tragedies
In goldpence and fame
And in hope, break Foundations
on laureled mounts,
Calling desperate to empty crypts
Which once housed their Muses

Praise and please to you, Polyhymn
Us hominids speak so bold
In our kindness to you!

While this is computed
And tooled to the ringing of gold
Glass
And transitions--
Mere sparks
In the ember of forge

That these mint implements
Are the forgery of that art
Consumes Hephaestus in his doubts
Of a father's true fires
And the alchem of his own

Clio, remember thy crowning!
The doubts of this mournful sphere
And the pain of our pasts
Are yours to cast within the stele
And praise be, toward your simple carvings of man!

Doting and careful could I be,
Lashing my wrists with decay
Stash my words by the reeds
I could hold the world up to keep
Our own love of the earth
In the same way
she should be earned

There is a certainty of that
Loveless act, the plotting of land
To place corpses upon the earth
For circus and grandeur

This is ultimately
The fate of you poets,
Cast as stones amongst the stream
Blackened and cold

And you will not know but the soul of you in deed
And your words will fall Deaf
Upon these fears of the freed

When they devour themselves in the temples
And massacre the streets
Exhume worn roads
Which bridged their father's feats

And when it is done
And the words come to rest
In the ruins and the spires
All but symbols and jests

No more, no more!
For it is all in their speech
It is all in good kind
And all left to me.
Poetry is art and art is dead, and it cannot be resumed unless understood in its aesthetic. For rivival comes but once and only upon death can the world understand the will of the living.
Leo Dubson Sep 2019
Every dreary day's the same.
Every important detail is halted
in a stalemate over a somewhen
that feels much like eternity.

I remember it all by heart,
my laughable fortress of apathy:
the texture of the chair,
the length of the motion
between my hand and my addiction
in the form of keyboard and mouse,
the brightness of fake mechanical dreams,
and the mess of real ones.

Then the line between evening and night blurs
or sometimes night and day,
and comes the tedious unrewarding process
of laying in bed, and listening
to all the little pains
of human body and mind:
little scratches, aches,
and too many thoughts.

Thoughts about
all the little things
that make me insufferably like myself:
my ego, wishing only to cage the world.
and make it dance like a fool,
conversing with despair,
an extravagant fellow
who sees no world
outside of mechanical fools
staged on a collapsing surface.

There are also social thoughts
about the game theory, hormones, and stress
of playing in human society.
People connected by fragile threads.
Loneliness is a paradox,
as it tends to grow with density.
It’s always hard to find
the ideal strategy.

I also remember well
the feeling of waking up.
I would have never known
how passionately one could hate
a series of fragmented sound bites saying:
"The time is 7:30 am. The time is-", I know.
Of course, you can’t know that I know,
or rather you just can’t know,
but it feels like you should by now, y’know??


After a period of time
equal parts instant and unending
I find myself strapped
to yet another, less comfortable chair.
There are a few dozen others
sitting in equally uncomfortable chairs
in equally inexpressive fashion.

At an opposite angle,
stands a bigger one
relaying piles of data
to be computed and organized
and tediously rehearsed,
by us, smaller calculators in training.
The most exciting
and unfun part
of our structural data training
are the tests
to check each one’s margin of error
and kindly give particularly special care
to the ones on the lower end
of achievement.

Sometimes one of the bigger ones
asks me if I’m fine
what a stupidly kind but pointless question.
Because, of course,
there’s only one correct answer
So I make a clueless face
and give the same one every time
I want to be a good calculator, after all.

But it’s far too obvious
to even bother saying
that nothing is ever fine
maybe that’s why no one does say it
and when I remember
the depth of my unfineness
my center of gravity sinks
deep into the earth
and all that’s left is the feeling
of my soul digesting itself,
and in those lucid moments
when the game of reality ceases
and nothing can be good or bad
and life becomes
too sad a story to handle
I can’t help but smile.
Karisa Brown Dec 2016
Portrayed in absence
Nasty taste left
Under swollen cheeks
Bitterness

Twisted up nerves
Conclusive Skulls

Perturbation unraveling
Sacred kept
Unwoken
Dreams

Dwindling
Darting
Captured
Locked

Deep seeded
Frustrations

Viscera
upside down

Computed relief
Only
Just
Aspiration
JaxSpade May 2019
I was tuned

The sound frequency
Was so frequent
Following rapidly

The sound of waves
Crashed into my brain
At 20,000 Hz

I been tryin to keep it down
To a low 20

I was holding a horseshoe magnet
And I became magnetized
The only thing I couldn't attract
Was a womans beautiful eyes

Sound was traveling
Caused by a vibration
It sounded like an elastic band twangin

Sounds waves filled the place
I was slapped a magnetic pole upon my face

It was this invisible force
A magnetosphere running a course
Of magnetic energy

The earth was spinning
Her iron core
Creating a dynamo electric current
When I was born

This resonance
Vibrated articulated
A little frustrated yet integrated
Into the world

The bigger the difference
The bigger the voltage
I had so much potential
As a little volt

Then a filament of tungsten wire
Developed an idea
Inside of a glass bulb
Filled with argon and nitrogen

A bright glowed
Superconducted
A light flow
That allowed me to see
Into the next world

This life

A bunch of electrons
Breaking free of atoms
Banging into each other
Like a row of marbles
In a current of 24 hours

I found myself in an electromagnetic spectrum
Floating in radiation emitted by atoms

X-rays and microwaves
combed through my hair like static
Electricity
   Ultraviolet
No one could see this
Computed tomography
Developing schemes like these
For poetry

I resume to be a battery
Eventually inevitably
Running out of energy
Tell you pull me out of your
Radio frequency
And discard my cathode
Of zinc and manganese

— The End —