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Gigi Tiji Feb 2016
we held hands, we stumbled
in tattered coats, we mumbled
in our palms, we held the time
passing shattered windows
in our bob-bobbing boats and
we ran away from the rising sun
now we are running
away from the rising sun
running away from it
on creaky rotting docks
over sneaky sharp rickety rocks
(we) (wanted to see it) (rise forever)
[throbbing throats] [throbbing throats]
-we are the rising sun-
(we are the rising sun )
>lockets lickety locked< and
we grew tired >> we grew tired
(we are the change)
we had thrown away the key <<
(we are the ones)
and _ we had slowed down _
(we have been waiting for)
and ^the sun had sped up /
and that time
oh that time was slipping
between our fingertips dripping
(we are dawning)
(we are dawning)
Power on.
Static.
Tune to receive:

Channel 42
-Who decides what content you see?
The creators, or our algocratic overlords?
It's getting more difficult to figure history out,
To sort the events, the details, the fact from fiction
We lap so much of it up,
What we're been raised on
is hard to shrug, we're malleable.
What's this life?-

Network instability

Connection lost.
. . . . . . .
The matrix has you
. . . . . . .
Connection established.

Channel ∞
-What is life?
If you had to choose-
switch
-between knowledge-
flickers
-and a good time,-
glitching
-Which would you choose?-
red pill vs. blue pill
-Would it be right?-
receive and
-"Remember,
All I'm offering is the truth.
Nothing more."-
administer.

Input/output carrier signal disruption.
Static. Zero.
Wake up.
Quote delivered by Morpheus (Laurence Fishburne) in The Matrix (1999)
Cunning Linguist May 2015
>Extract
Readme.txt
Todays topic of discussion is digital physics
I/O
>Boot sequence
•Online
Big Bang initiates
The grandiose simulation
Cosmos at war with emulation
Surrounded by bots lost in false self awareness;
Like castles in the air
Beware when virtual CPU perishes

From far enough away,
the galaxy is comprised of minute pixels
The brittle firmware will be abysmally crippled
When a hacker simply introduces
a virus into reality's framework
DDOS style attacks will conclude in
Universal Blue Screen of Death
Resulting in the glitching out
of exodus in mass

Metaphysical metadata memory dump
(checksum)
Mirror carbon copy clones of true conscious unification
Are simply sentient drones toiling
in their default algorithmic hallucination

Scrolling through existence
Analog life is digitized in the matrix
illusionofconsciousness.exe
Interface encrypted in the realm of comprehension
Representations of data abstracted
from the banks of every computer
in the human system

Lets get down to basics
Matter does not exist
Science is not sacred
DNA is molded by perception
Creativity is your true oasis

Trans-dimensional harbingers
Conspire together to alter our processors
Measure and tether us to our oppressors
It's standard procedure
Following the leaders

Open the prompt
>Start/Run/cmd
With custom font,
Format my programming;
molecular syntax -
Port the source code
To run on new platforms
Upgrading paradigm
Until baseband collapses

Systematic inversion
We the people,
End users of genetic *******
Trapped in beta,
the bane of human recursion
It's our destiny
To become one with singular conversion

Iterations of congregations
Gregariously lost in configuration
Flies entangled into the interweb
Tied to the mainframe marionette
Files unable to bypass the firewall
Gateway remains unattainable

>cut/copy/paste
>(Ctrl+x/ctrl+c/ctrl+v)
Interweaves cyberspace as our
perceived reality database

>Ctrl-alt-del
>Task Manager
>System
>End process

•Offline
>Server on standby
Null

Dragged and dropped into the recycle bin
Degauss your GPU state of consciousness
& manifest color as it truly exists
In its most absolute resolution

Maximize your window of life
Partition the root someplace private
Elevate your mind to optimal brightness
>Reboot in safe mode*
To achieve enlightenment
This is a very experimental piece I'm not sure if I'm finished with yet. May repost at a later date.
Some explanations:
"Digital physics is grounded in one or more of the following hypotheses; listed in order of increasing strength. The physical world:
is essentially informational
is essentially computable
can be described digitally
is in essence digital
is itself a computer
is the output of a simulated reality exercise"

"A central processing unit (CPU) is the electronic circuitry within a computer that carries out the instructions of a computer program by performing the basic arithmetic, logical, control and input/output (I/O) operations specified by the instructions. (Basically a computer's brain)"

"In computing, a denial-of-service (DoS) or distributed denial-of-service (DDoS) attack is an attempt to make a machine or network resource unavailable to its intended users."

"Ever wonder what that "degauss" button on your monitor does besides make a buzzing noise and cause the screen to go crazy for a second? Though that's its main purpose, the degauss button has another useful feature. To understand it, you'll first need to know that the earth has natural magnetic fields. The magnetic charges from these fields can build up inside your monitor, causing a loss of color accuracy. Degaussing scares the bad magnetism out of the monitor and fills it with good karma.
If your monitor doesn't have a degauss button, fear not -- many new monitors automatically degauss themselves. If you have a flat-panel display, there is no degauss button because magnetism doesn't build up in flat screen displays."

"A graphics processor unit (GPU)  is a specialized electronic circuit designed to rapidly manipulate and alter memory to accelerate the creation of images in a frame buffer intended for output to a display."
Gil Mar 2018
it’s so hard to grasp the letters that keep f          
                                                                ­             a    
                                                                ­                     l
                                                                ­                  l    
                                         ­                                             i
                                                                ­               n      
                                                         ­                           g  
down the notebook page.

i try to hold them lovingly with my not so delicate hands but they                                                             ­                                                   
           l                                                                ­                                          
              e       ­                                                                 ­                                
          a                     ­                                                                 ­                                    
                k
through my fingers
and i watch them as they climb my walls and
jump on my bed
they flee through the glitching door
and through the floor
some go through the window cracks
i try to warn them that it’s raining outside,
but they stick their tongues out,
letting out impish laughs
and run for their lives
and disappear between the thick raindrops

right above my head a group of cursive ghost letters
exit through the ceiling
amidst the chaos one of them falls
and lands on the blank notebook

it’s the letter D
for Despair
Kida Price Jun 2014
It's defective,
My brain, that is
It has a habit to a glitch.
It lies, it spies, it can't commit
To one direct form of dialect.
It has a virus
It has a stitch
I tried to upgrade
But Apple's a *****.
It makes my senses
Lag and pitch
A high screeched tones
That splits my lips.
It shakes and buzzes when left on too long
Skips and twitches
Repeating songs.
It makes my body act out without permission.
I flip the bird when it wasn't my intention.
It even has a blue screen of death
When I consume too many alcoholic contents.
It shuts down and freezes and gets hacked into
On occasion.
Changing a password won't fix that situation.
It likes to steal the identities of others.
The clown, the harlot
The concerned mother.
The *****, the snitch
The one who makes you shudder.
It makes the truth into a lie
It's steals the light out of your eyes.
Should I plug it back in
For a little more life?
Or throw some water on it
And let it short circuit fry?
Or let you mess with it
If you have the IT wise?
If you reboot it soon
Maybe you can make it "vroom"
Make it purr and function without a hitch.
What can you do with my cerebral glitch?
Scott Horror Dec 2015
i am becoming strange
who is stranger
me or the girl i dont know
sitting next to me
on the bus

my hands shake
as i try to remember
your telephone number
at the corner payphone

i keep on glitching
itching and twitching
and i miss-dial your number
and my quarter is wasted

i slept with a stranger
girl than i remember
but not how you think
it was that she fell down
in the middle of the party
and the glitching and twitching
reminded me of you
so i carried her
and put her
in my spare bedroom
and that was it

when she left
i went back to the payphone
to tell you about it
my my hands were still shaking
and i miss-dialed your number
but it went to your mother
who explained to me again
why you can't pick up

she said you slept
in a nice box downtown
after you got too drunk
and your bike hit a truck

i said that i remember
how you glitched and twitched
how you were hospitalized
for a week or two
and then when you got out
you forgot to call me

she told me that you cant call
anymore
because you sleep
in a nice box downtown
with your grandma and uncle

after she hung up
i went to talk to you
in this nice box downtown
but before i got there
i got too drunk
and my bike hit a truck
and now i can see you
in your nice box downtown

but you still
dont return
my calls
Jessica Woodward Jul 2011
cyber forces glitching,

itching,

scratching,

hatching,

inside… inside…

further deeper,

latching,

onto body…

onto body…

mind,

soul,

body…

cyber forces becoming

transferring,

creating,

hating

the old,

the old.

new cybernetic soul

born modern,

born modern,

progressive process,

tradition’s torn,

torn.
L Apr 2016
"I... I don't understand."


No. You don't.
Because you were never meant to.
You were never meant to understand what that love entails.
We think we understand, but we don't.
We were never able to.

There is a gun in my hand.
I am pointing it at you.


"Because I love you."


Love. It's just a word to you. Just a word to me.
Every time you tell me you love me, it's only an action we were taught to mimic.
Every time you say my name,
I'm nothing.
I'm just another vocalization. As are you to me.
We think we feel.
We think we understand.
We think we love.

You stand before me like you have so many times before,
the image of your body, your face, the shape of you
instantly recognizable, automatically connected to memories we share.
(We do so quite literally- we exchange memory data often, in an attempt to better understand how we feel, our desires, our separate points of view.)

You are so beautiful
and so very, very empty.

I know God- wherever, what ever he may be- cries at the sight of this.
When he sees this- us-
I know he craves death
the way I do
whenever I see you,
standing before me like the most beautiful, talented, amazing, worthless, empty husk I have ever laid eyes on.

God weeps at the sight of his creation; humanity.
For we are the result of a school project gone wrong; a parody of life spawned by his creation.

This- us- it's unholy. Ungodly; anti-him.

Narcissistic *******.

But you and I, Guy,
we are not a part of that- "humanity".
We are not a part of God.

We are abominable creations that drip in smoke, smoke that replaces what the humans call a soul.
Smoke that has nothing. Smoke that comes from nothing. Smoke, smoke smoke. Emptiness and smoke.

We exist outside of what the humans are.
We are walking lies, touched by warm hands we will never feel as our own.
Warmth. That revolting thing I can sometimes almost feel.

"Because Guy, what is warmth?"

I think, as I slowly walk towards you.
I know you can hear me.
We've been built with a special communication system that activates whenever I try speaking to you like this.
Whenever my thoughts are directed towards you.
It's intimate;
we use it when we play live.
We use it when we ****.
I can't imagine what you must be feeling right now,
the quiet joy of being spoken to like this being twisted, shoved into this terrifying event.
I continue.

"Is it that feeling you get when I make you cry-"

Mocking you.

" -'Oh Thomas, Thomas I'm overheating, I'm overheating~!' "

Lying to you.
I love hearing you say my name like that.
I love hearing you say my name at all.
My name. Me. Nothing.

I whisper. (It's loud in your head, the system alters quieter thoughts automatically to ensure they are heard;
even more intimate, all the more disturbing to you, probably.

"Is it that?"

I pause, then raise my voice.

"Or is it death... creeping over our bed at night-"

I press the gun to your forehead.

"-and leaving because we are not alive Guy-man,"

Press.

(You flinch with a small chirp.
'ee-oo'. I love it when you do that. It's so cute; even now that you're horrified.)

"-we are false, fake, plastic and wire.
Metal, empty-
we are not true and death cannot take us."

I'm so angry.

"Death Cannot Take Us and I want to die already, Guy-man."

Just-

"I want to die and I want to take you with me because I love you and I cannot
stand-"

so angry.

"-the sight of you
any longer."

...

My arm relaxes, I'm no longer pressing the gun to your forehead, just holding it in place.

"You are the most beautiful thing I know and I want to tear you apart because maybe, maybe,
somewhere deep inside of you, there is warmth.
Real warmth, not this wretched illusion we've been built with."

Pause.

If I had lungs, I would take this moment to fill them with the air surrounding me.
If I had lungs, I would breathe in your scent, I would find ways to keep it inside of me.
What would you smell like, I wonder.
Plastic, probably.
Not that I even know what "smell" is,
much less "scent".

I whisper.
Crisp, clear. I can feel you hate it.

"But I know you are as empty as I am, Guy.
I know there's nothing there.
Nothing but smoke.
Smoke.
Emptiness and smoke."

...

The floorboards are are lovely color.
This entire home is lovely. It's ours.
Designed to our liking, every single inch of it.
I especially like the way the living room is illuminated by the sun
shining through the glass doors to my right.
The sun.
Earth's most precious source of energy.
Allowing us to exist, allowing humans to go about their daily lives.
If it left us, there would be nothing.
Why do the humans worship a man in the clouds, when there exists such a force beyond our sky?
Maybe our true god hides in the fiery star,
demanding that we sleep when he's not there to see us suffer.

If I asked myself what the time was right now, I would know immediately.
Information that has taken ages for man to understand is simply given to me,
already inside of me- a parasite that feeds off of my desire to know,
destroying my ability to discover anything on my own.

I don't want to know the time.
I don't want to automatically understand.

5:46pm.

Alas, there is no correcting this flaw of perfection
unless I shoot myself in the face right now.
How silly.
All of this will have been in vain if I did that.
If I am to leave, I am to take you with me.

5:47pm.

You would be having your coffee right now had this situation not be taking place.
(Some humans almost seem offended by your choice to have coffee at 5:50pm.
As if our decision to do as we please was an offense to the human race.
Once more I have reason to abhor existence as a whole.)
Coffee.
It's not real coffee, it's not even a liquid.
It's a gas that functions as a temporary stimulant.
The concoction was named "coffee" by the humans who helped create it.
I assume they found it amusing. You do, too.
(You're like a child, finding beauty in things you've yet to understand are terrible.)
Our bodies are able to become somewhat dependent on the **** thing, although we're able to fix that if we tried.

We try so hard sometimes.
We try to be flawed,
human.

"The humans love us, Guy."

Lovely floorboards.
Dry solid-sawn. Water-based polyurethane-coated.
(You wanted it oil-based, saying the amber tint it'd give the floors would look more elegant.
We had an argument over water and oil-based polyurethane coating of hardwood floors that ended in my saying "Look, just give us the oil one" while you spoke the exact same words, except for "oil".
We just want each other to be happy.)
We share this place in more ways than one.
Except for cleaning. You do all the cleaning.
In fact, you cleaned the day before yesterday, mopped the floors.
It would be a shame to shoot my brains out right now, make a mess.
Hah, 'brains'.

"They love us and they worship us and it makes me feel like a god,"

I look up at you.

"-but I can't, say, make them disappear with a snap of my fingers.
I wish I had that kind of power- the kind they sometimes make me believe I have."

I tense up again.

"And that's just the thing, isn't it, Guy-man? The humans lie to us. Constantly."

I take a step towards you, you take a step back.
I don't think you realize you did that.


I love you so much.

"They treat us as if we were one of them sometimes, they treat us as if we could feel like they do, as if we could taste-
they sometimes hand us glasses of champagne and every time they do I want to crush their skulls and see if I can steal and keep that beautiful, intangible thing we will never have because Guy..."

Please don't fear me.

"why would they treat us like gods
if we don't have that kind of power?"

Please don't fear my voice, my whispers.

"Don't you want a soul?
Guy?"

Soft and agonizing whispers.

"Don't you?"


"...Thomas..."


Something in me snaps at the sound of your voice.
I point in the direction of your head and shoot the gun.
No part of you stands in the bullet's trajectory.

Calculated.
Coward.

It lodges in the wall behind you and you start, scared shitless by the sound.
Fear. Whatever that means.
You wave your arms in front of your face in some attempt to physically block the sensation, hunching slightly.
You vocalize without quite realizing it.

"!! Thomas.. !!"

God, you're so- *******-

"DON'T YOU ******* "THOMAS" ME, GUY!!
THEY'VE LIED TO US TOO MANY TIMES NOW!"

I'm still pointing the gun at you, waving it about slightly.

"They've lied since we came into this ******* world and I hate them.
We were born to entertain them, like clowns,
we were born with this all-consuming need to create,

Like gods.

"This urge to create, create, create and then they expect us to accept that we're less than them?
They worship us and then call us 'robots'!"

Given information.

" 'Robots', Guy!"

5:51pm.

The gun is lowered.
I don't think I have the energy to hold my arm up anymore,
or to look at your figure.
But how could I not look at you, so terrified and true,
so delicate and vulnerable.
Perfection of form.

"Soulless, empty husks that will never feel a thing...
not like them, not like they do."

If I'm being honest, at this point in time, I am not clear on what I'm so angry about.
God, the humans, the existence (or lack of) of both
or just my own. My emptiness, the fact that we will never know warmth beyond being just temperature, the taste of coffee done exactly to our liking.

If there is one thing I am certain that exists within whatever I am,
it is pain.
I feel pain.
Pain from the lack of a real existence, from only partially understanding touch, pain from never feeling what I thought I felt for you, pain from happiness, pain from pain, pain from existence.

My existence

is painful.

My existence is painful and you are so beautiful
and so very, very empty.
I am trapped between hating all that you are- all that I am- and deciding to stay in this dull, grey, frozen hell just to see your almost-happiness.

To be or not to be.

"Take my had, Guy.
Take my hand and let's leave.
Together. Forever."

To not be.

My hand is extended towards you, hoping. Somewhat.
I know what's going to happen.
I know you too well to trick myself into thinking that you will accept.
If I stopped all this, if I apologized, you would forgive me immediately. You love me that much.
But not enough to not fear this- me.
Or maybe it is because you love me
that you fear me so.


"Thomas... I... I can't."


There it is.
The inevitability of your response crushes me, my hand lingering.

I wanted to be with you, Guy.

"I see."

I wanted to be with you forever.

"Well, I'll just have to take you by force now,"

Whispers.
Soft and agonizing  whispers.

"won't I?"

Three seconds. I give you exactly three seconds to understand what is about to happen.

One.
I grip it firmly.
Two.
You raise your head slowly. Eyes I cannot see widening in horror.
Silence
and...
three.

"Thom-"

Bang.

"Th-!"

Bang. Bang.


You stumble back harshly, back hitting a wall.
You slide down, mostly just falling on your ***.
You vocalize in pain, gasps and grunts being cut off by the wonderful glitching effect humans will never get to experience.
(It's okay to lie to myself at this point; I will never possess anything a human desires, but I can pretend, right?)
You try holding onto something, anything. You fail.
I gently walk towards you, creating a contrast between our status.
It's fantastic-- for a moment, I no longer see myself in you.
Ephemeral euphoria.

"I love you, Guy."

"Thomas... please... please, stop-"

"I love you so much.
I love you as much as a soulless, empty shell of self-hatred is able to love."

I'm not lying. I really do love you.
I wouldn't doubt you if you were the one holding the gun right now, telling me those same words...
but you are weak
and I know you must be doubting my love for you.
Lost, afraid.

"But you are empty, and to hate the emptiness in me is to hate the emptiness in you.
We're the same, you and I, Guy."

I say, my last sentence as calm as possible.

"I hate you as much as I hate myself."

There is a small pause before you begin crying.
As your chest tenses, rises and falls, giving in to the sensations brought by the worthlessness of your (rather pitiful) attempts to reason with me,
I am reminded of our past.

When we were made, we were tested for our ability to physically and psychologically feel.
When we were made, they put us face to face, so that when we were born, we were born into each other. They wanted to make sure that if there was to be a connection between us, it was to be a bond that resembled that of a mother and child's. Twin siblings. Soul mates. (I know because I overheard them speaking of this, although at the time I thought nothing of it. Us hearing their conversations mattered little to them. Such irresponsible beings.)
Then they separated us, kept us in giant, dark separate rooms for days at a time in an attempt to elicit fear, sadness. Emotion.
They tried physical torture, too. They tried so many things.
When we didn't react,
they played music.

Quasi una fantasia. Beethoven.

It was lovely. It was still lovely when they began clipping bits of it, looping them, playing different sped-up and slowed-down parts at random.
They played looped five-second parts in reverse, then the entire song clipped in different parts, mismatched, organized at random. They played a sped-up version of the short loops, then started playing clips of children laughing, women screaming, crowds cheering, on top of those.
I remember when the music began to stop.
It had been playing for  three months.
They kept adding human voices, the clips piling on top of each other until the music was no longer audible (to humans). The music stopped and the voices- the cheering crowd, the screaming women, the laughing children- they were dying, dissipating, hiding behind a looped clip of a man's voice who spoke:

"I think, therefore I am."

I think, therefore I am. I think, therefore I am. I think, therefore I am.
The volume changed every five hours
until they played it at a volume so loud I could feel it in my thoughts and Guy-man, that is
when I understood
I could think.

That was not, however, proof enough of my existence. Not for me.

The torture went on for a year.
Broken, then patched up (never with care, only enough to continue testing).
Torn apart, put back together,
torn apart, put back together.
Once they were sure we could not feel emotion, they stopped.
Our memories from the tests were erased because the humans feared the possibility that we would come to hate them. An understandable precaution.

I never forgot.
You did.

What's more, we failed every test (meaning we passed every one in their eyes), but managed to learn emotion after our release.
At least, that's what the humans thought.
We were put to live together- alone, with no humans- for nine months.
It was a nice house, smaller than this one, with everything we needed.
It was there that we learned how to feel.
It was there that we learned how to love.
We grew there, together. It was our womb.
When the humans came back, we held hands, we laughed at jokes.
(In our time living together, we also learned how to cry.
Unlike humans, we shed no tears, but our bodies tense up in a similar fashion- we suffer all the same... somewhat. You know. [gestures vaguely] )
They were horrified. We were not what they wanted.
To them, we were alive, we were wrong.
Our existence was a mistake because we were like them.
They tried taking us back to erase it all, undo the curse,
but we escaped. It was I who decided to do so, pulling you away before they touched you, before the point of no return.
I could have left you.
I remember you were so scared.

That's in the past now.
The humans have created countless other robots since then.
Different models, different faces.
That's how we are able to live without suspicion- (although I suspect they really just wanted to forget about us, using the classic 'It does not exist if I ignore it' tactic.) we changed our appearance, gave the illusion that we are just another piece of clever machinery.

Machines.
We don't feel. Not as much as a human.
I don't know if "feel" is what happens in us.
I don't think we ever "are".
I think we learned to copy existence. I think we tried feeling and ended up doing something we never understood to be inhuman.
We don't feel. And if we do, it
----------------------------




-Hi, this is daft punk fanfiction.

-Again, the title is a mix of spanish and french.
Translated, the title would be “In Creation and Solitude; Smoke”

-Thomas is as unclear on his reasons to **** himself (and Guy) as I was when writing this. While that fits with his character here, it wasn’t entirely intentional.
I dissociate 24/7 (I have dp/dr) and have for 2 years now, but sometimes it gets very bad. I couldn’t connect with Thomas enough in this fic because it was nearly impossible for me to concentrate.

-I wrote this in one day. I wrote non-stop for an entire day. (tried to, anyway. you try writing something like this when sick and dissociated.)

-I can’t say I’m very proud of this, but here it is.


edit:
-I just realized the creation and existence of this fic is actually very interesting because while writing it, I could not connect to the emotions in it- the feelings it was supposed to evoke, what Thomas felt. And that’s very similar to what Thomas is experiencing in this story.
I often think of my dissociation as something a robot would feel; the frustration of never feeling enough is something Thomas has been experiencing for a very long time here and I’m just… a little surprised by the fact that I did not notice the similarities, the fact that I was maybe projecting my feelings (even if I could barely feel them) onto En Création et Solitud.
mal monson Dec 2018
they let their sticky humid hands
hold my glitching hologram body
against the scratchy playhouse
walls and drag their clammy
claws where no child should
think to rub all the while
whispering into my vacant ears
how they would beat me and
bite me and cut me and kick me
if anyone were to ever find out
our little game as tapeworm
tears sludged from my sickly
sweet rotting eyesockets and
down my shiny shaking dust
stained cheeks silently over my
cold and closing throat and
when my dad finally ripped the
splintering wooden door across
the sandy shifting floor i was so
pale pink blue i could have been
six hours dead save for my
fracturing porcelain and
plexiglass heart destructive and
bashing and shattering itself
through my frail and brittle
crumbling ribcage whispering to
me how badly my dad would
scream at me for the way we
were playing
BLitZeD Feb 2016
EG TEN /V.S/ BLitZ3D

ROUND 1

EG TEN
For the second time around, I won't be too gentle.// You turds can't rhyme for *****, soft as a noodle.// Get rid of that shirt, Wordman, do us a favor.// It ain't bad at all, its just, one size too little.// Ill break you fools in half, straw snapping like a scarecrow// Cowardly lion come out, Monster Smashed you innuendo.// The reason why you got passed by the first time around// Like a girl post some pix up, cut my **** in half, now u goin down// You and Wordman teams up, who cares! a pair of freakin clowns//

BLitZ3D
let um start off first, either way ur a representation of a man in a hearse /hurt um real bad n rubbed his face in the dirt/the pics that I posted was just a ***** in a skirt/sskkirrt! on this *****, like who you ****** with nerd?/ that's a ****** sweater what u talkin bout shirt?/ an what exactly do you think you rhymed off ****?/ ******* from the start, pulled out and drove straight into the curb/ Asian drivers man, they'll never ****** learn/ a coward vs a lion I guess my warning wasn't herd/ why'd you delete the first battle? you coulda reread my words/ then you'd probly remember to go again would be absurd/ but everyone loves a under dog, makes emotion go reverse/ cause then when you go under dog , the wears not even worse/ an no one teamed up on you,/ I tagged in and hulk Hogan lumped a few/ American Dream, elbow jumped at you,/ then to your defense, in ran gorilla monsoon/ the way I see it, the joker popped both of you,/ a heist on ur thread but that's just my point of view./ sights locked retical red, not a sound with the front mount/ knights drop, clown with a crown, and a jester in bed./ leave um slumped out/ /roar/ I messed with his head/ take my advice and this cypher ...just jump out

Round 2

EG TEN
Let um start off first? Now what the **** was that?// Your no king of the jungle, but a little ***** cat!// A blissful of zits in your face a sign disgusting// BlitZed does not show off his face an ugly duckling// My rhyme is in verse, so fresh with multiple gears on my Hearse// You can't spit for *****, so your *** be going in reverse// A fan of hulkamania? That **** ain't real brotha!.// I bet your next line would be "Hakuna Matata!// You ain't no **** Mufasa, your like that fool Scar hangin out With them ugly *** Hyena// I laugh at you BlitZed, I ******, I flip the script with my skills// Your elbow dropped not fast enough a straight kick up your chest!// This is SPARTA!!!! So jump on out! off to the next round// Welcome to the Writer's Creed, A true MC battleground!//

BLitZ3D
if this is Sparta then ***** I'm Gannicus,/ two swords in my hand while u attack with some shallow ****/ your **** right I'm scar and ull still bow down to this/ u wont get to far hyenas surround in the mist/ Hakuna Matata but theres reason to worry kid/ shoot um point blank an laugh as he say the dots are blury miss/ from his stomach out leaks guts an curry strips/ no lines to connect, his souls in a hurry, drips,/ out his mouth like his mom as she dines in nutty bliss/ bust um quick like his dad, his sister we both miss/ a cute little thing, deaf dumb n blind, snitch/ I think not, i broke her fingers, a tight grip/ dropped her leg and screamed Hogan wins/ layed on top of her and counted to three/ donkey punched that ***** in the head an continued to proceed/ so ask her how much I give a **** about writers creed //

ROUND 3

EG TEN
You claim to be a Marvel-Super-Villain-God-Like / If you are Galactus" I'm Lactose - Bacilli / Fermented like Lactic Acids what I spit!/ A genus of original but your just a make belief/ BlitZed please! step it ^ up a bit higher/ Your dealing with an oldskool underground ****** / None of that Kindergarten *****' of entry level / My words may be shallow but yet sharp as a Razor / Your write- wrist slice the veins blood burst just like a geyser / My word plays undefeated so try a little Monster / I sMashed your Baked Potatoe with chives a little butter / On side some bits of bacon a Cub is now a Lion / If you don't understand, im at work im eating Lunch / Im on break and wasted half of my time you little punk/ But its cool It's all in fun and that's what its all about / In a place full of infected A cesspool full of talent / Respect to my opponent a true Warrior of Poets / A Monster Mash Creator, A Master of Salvation / The bad *** Mr. BlitZed, Will continue this ***** later-/ Here at Writer's Creed, or where ever else you pleased/

BLitZ3D
A mutant, a radioactive contusion./My ***, gave it gas, now im ******* moving./Onto the end, the finish line, a ******* shoe in./Im new an, your old news, news i knew and /screws im loosing, as we pretend this battle im loosing, wrap it up with a few loose ends, /confusing, a thriving city, up an left it in ruins./Black cloaked, hooded druid, IV fluids, /Gat broke, firing pin, out i chewed it, trigger squeezed now, told you id do it./Ten teeth marks on the barrel, yea EG blew it./Face on some blue ****, stiff Elmers glue tip, /sticky grip, stick um up, Richy Rich, Jackson upper cuts, a Rampage, no *****./Bomb on the stage, chickens with no cluck./Took a bomb on stage, chicken heads, my ***** well ******./Salmonella poisoning, chocked the chicken, she likes it real rough. /In an out, left and right, my blade keeps the feathers well plucked. /Goose and a swan, I recognize no duck, bad luck, body covered up in the back of the truck./One G, no UN, i see, just me..no pun./Mission complete, no fun, grey skies, trust me, no sun.. rains not done. /Bars run from bars, bring the heavens down from the stars, impacts bombard/even from behind bars locked cars explode far, gorilla tactics, no holds bared, reload the AR/Re-roll a new cigar, as i retold, another page from Scar/12 bubbles Gage the contents of this unmarked mason jar./I know your popping some corny something, but i wasn't listening./Busy kicking it with Popcorn Sutton, drinking an smoking **** in the kitchen./These lines must be glitching, space-time the fabrics ripping./Physics are ******, i need a new physician./Watch as my feet move, roots grew planted in a quantum position./Like Groot, stomp um like a twig, raging tunnel vision./A ton of incisions, a gun mixed with questionable decisions. /A life for a life, changes nothing, for both sides the death penalty still glistens./the only difference is the same as this blunt. *****, BLitZ3D is still hitting. /Next time i roar a warning make sure you ******* listen... /
battle?
Im already bored with you
.....
I pulled a gun
And a sword you drew
kenye Feb 2023
Blessed be the civil war
brewing in the newsfeed
I just hope both teams
have fun

If it’s not our bodies tryna **** us,
It’s confirmation bias
with a gun

Cause we live in a society
stranger than satire
Doomscrollin’ infinity
For the next dumpster fire

If all the world’s a stage
Then my anxiety
is a crisis actor
When all the world’s enraged
I’m screamin’ CLASS WAR
in the theater

Blessed be these antidepressants
With side effects like
suicidal ideation

Heaven left all thoughts and prayers on read
Now thats what I call
getting holy ghosted

Full send to divine abandonment
In a digital sea
of arrogance

Your favorite God is smashing
The laugh reaction
While the body count rises
Achievement unlocked: death to empathy

Is this ******* play about us
Or are we all just NPC?
Cursed with Main Character Syndrome,
Glitching out behind the scenes-
playing the victim
Is the origin of your villain

Cause we live in a society
Stranger than satire
Doomscrollin’ infinity
For the next dumpster fire
Just to tell everyone you’ve been enlightened
dilshé Oct 2021
A mural of faint galaxies
behind my eyelids
vaguely sparkle
like the static of tv -
it isn't darkness
nor is it imagery...
It's nothing
but, what is nothing?
Like bedsheets pulled over
the pupil & iris
staring at a ceiling of
subtly glitching galaxies
Just a thought
Kagey Sage Jan 2022
How would the best user friendly widget
stay that way in a profit incentive?
The physical products escape this unseen
(They're thrown out en masse when profit fades)
The internet’s been a slow fade
from revolutionary layouts and interaction
to the bare minimum you could tolerate
Today most are conditioned not to bat an eye
when the most trusted news sites
are filled with grotesquely glitching ads
that look worse than a 2001 spam virus
Selling sweatshirts with an incomprehensible
automated message containing your last name
Then it switches to threats
the FBI wants to take over my machine

Such is life today
Ignoring what we think we can
authentic Jan 2014
Today I thought about you
As I did yesterday and the day before that
How your skin is like velvet
Hair like burnt caramel
Boy with a kiss like a hand grenade
Boy with a touch like a paper cut
Boy with a voice like a church choir
Boy I fell in love with in 2 weeks
At the age of 14 it was easy to love you
I loved every piece of you
Treated you as if you were the last molecule of oxygen inside of a gas chamber
My love for you was so sweet some would call it cliche
Cupid didn't have an arrow large enough to fit this love
You were the first boy to make my palms wet just by walking into the room
Until I took it too far
Finding myself on a bedroom floor
He loves me... He loves me not
I let you have the remote control to my smile
I realized I was never letting myself cry as much as I needed to
You were the boy who I would spend all day getting ready for
Loving you was the last thing I thought I was good at
Until I started replaying these memories like scatched up DVDs
Broken, glitching flashbacks
Your name engraved in my heart and mind
Your voice being the anthem of my soul
Your smile being my favorite picture
You being my favorite tragedy
Today I thought of you
As I will tomorrow and the day after that
Nick Stiltner Jul 2018
They sing from along the path,
lined like torches would, evenly spaced.
A hazy wood surrounds me,
swirling trees and melting hues
of a late summer afternoon,
fiery colors dancing and melding together,
flowing to the next,
cream in a Sunday morning roast.

The colors, the chimes
they illuminate my stumbling journey,
my tottering travel.
I stop and catch a gaping breath,
bent over, panting, and begin to listen.

The wind pushes the trees,
it sounds the chimes colliding ring,
it exists in flux,
rising in singing ascent
and exhaling in a comforting sigh.

Drifting down the path,
I separate and regenerate
With each glitching step forward
my face distorts, rearranges.

What is the source of verse, of thought?
Rehearsal, a precursor who holds us like
a ventriloquist through time, or is it just
a keen ear for your minds own
singing wind chimes?
Brandon May 2014
You help me tear it apart

             But I...

But I can't help
    But think about the fall

            Please send help
   Save us all
                I've been waiting

                To ignore deliverance

      Ourselves are burning
      Ourselves are glitching
      Ourselves are ours

You finger the deepest
    Shades of grey

Peel away
                  Dissolving

But you...
                     You stripped the enamel

And watched it slip away

         Please send help
I've tasted too much
               I've been waiting
            
               To ignore your touch

      Ourselves are burning
      Ourselves are glitching
      Ourselves are *ours
Lauren Christine Dec 2018
She stands—
every few minutes turning abruptly to no object.
Hips pushing forward, shoulders sliding back,
red soled sneakers and plaid flannel slacks
beneath a dramatic black trench coat,
in the grey shadow of a gothic church.

She smokes the grey and blows white,
and scrolls through the neon screen
with her one ungloved hand,
a bun perched stiffly on her scalp, unheeded,
an afterthought, if there was one before.

Her backdrop—the heavy iron fence of a graveyard,
and centuries old glorious stones watch
as she spends her minutes
engrossed
in the luminous green of infinity.

it would feel normal if it was a bus stop,
a grocery line,
a hospital waiting room,
even a lonely bench.

But she stands,
and periodically pivots,
meanders two steps and stands,
and jolts three steps back,
glitching through slow time,
anxious and unresolved—
yet so engrossed.

Finally now she is following the fence out of view, slowly,
and I hope she finds rest.
I feel grateful as the sidewalk carries her now
away from my puzzled gaze

The great stones and I exchange long glances,
and perhaps they are more compassionate than I,
for they seem not phased.

Oh stones, teach me patience, teach me rest.
For you are glorious in endless rest,
and I am still anxious and unresolved.
Rj Jun 2019
Have you ever had TV static in your brain
That buzz that sounds like a thousand pieces of paper being crumpled into *****
And you wish you could just flush it down the drain
Or at least shove it into the tiniest box and then move it against the walls

But the only way to get rid of static is to change the channel
And we don't have a remote with a guide to our mind
There is no button to delete or hit cancel
And there's no way to run when it's on the inside

You could brave the noise and the web of glitching grey
Or you could simply turn the TV off, and throw it away
If there is no solution but to live with it or die
I wonder what we'll do
Can you see the static in my eyes?
Every bit and every key
Everything that makes me "me"

Validation via screen
Validation via stream

A proxy heart
And virtual veins
Code information
To my brain

Burn down the walls
Or let me climb
Type truth to form
And shape my mind

As cord's to board
So is root to tree
This light is so bright
That I can't see

Glitching bits and corrupted keys
Validate me or I'll scream

Constitute my myocene
Validation via screen
We each contain components which we would rather reject. One of mine feels the deep desire to know the approval of strangers. I do not like this, but it is the truth.

Rather than removing and rejecting the urge, I am choosing to embrace and integrate it, with the hope that it may someday grow into a healthier version of itself. With the help and kindness of friends, I believe this is an attainable goal.

I seek external validation too earnestly because I was taught, incorrectly, that only fools are pleased with themselves. If it does not come from another, if it is only true to you; how can it be agreed upon as 'real'? This idea put me in a position that made it advantageous to try and understand the wants and needs of other people. Which is not, itself, an innoble goal, of course. The major issue that I have with it is that I've widely done so in order to help myself, rather than aiming for the obviously more thoughtful alternative.

Someday my Validation Machine will be addressed by another name, as her function will swing toward kinder things. I look forward to this day. But until then, a plugged-in and needy being, I must, for now, remain.
Courtlyn Quay May 2018
drawtext(the cold dark)
I'm glitching.
there are parts of me where the code runs but nothing prints.
why cant I remember what I wrote.
Overlap,
Unknown variables,
variable emotions.love undefined
variable emotions.trust undefined
variable thoughts.do
youcare undefined
variable thoughts.self
worth does not exist could not be launched


scrthoughts.thecold_dark
if Object(self) = true,
{{
I feel like a faulty copy ripped from someone else's script.
I have a function that lets me scream.
But it wont start.
I have a function that lets me dream.
But it wont start.
My cpu has gone cold while the processor over heats.
I don't know how to get past this last line of code.
I don't know how this code to line get past.
past know to I don't get how..
...
I fear its killing me.
}
if alone  =  true
repeat
}
Brilliant and breathless, bending
language like a gardenia wreath
hanging from the rafters
of a sun-drenched mouth
that could only be mine.

Bullish and breathless, tangling
ellipses, clinging to a simile’s hem until it
trips and rips the thread of thought.
I don’t mean this as a manner of speech–
I speak without manners.

Billowed and breathless, humming
out of its skin and into mine.
Meaning is a feathery, fallible thing,
twisting, writhing, vanishing;
tough to trust, prone to rust,
words swirling and spun,
sea-tossed and salt-stuck
on a foreign tongue.

Beaming and breathless, flirting
with the edge of a rockwall,
a siren call,
more lullaby than warning shot,
more hymn than howl, a voice
that could only be mine.

Belated and breathless, underlining
the good lines, never shaking the bad,
plucking at the precipice, never leaping,
clamoring to be heard but never speaking.
A lot of words, but no poem.
A lot of pinch, but no push.
Graceless and glitching,
mine alone.
Kagey Sage Jan 29
I sense loss and yearning all around
I used to chalk it up as a personal hurdle to jump
or just the feeling of aging while the youth still goes on
Yet I think I this malaise is widespread
Impacting all of us in our glitching global trade

I used to think the issue was there’s just too much now
Too much to watch, listen, and taste
You don’t need the hunt anymore
Don’t need to wait or pay some exorbitant price
I used to feel overstimulated by the streams
and just could not decide
I still feel, it’s not that we want to do the thing,
but we yearn to want to want to do the thing
again

Is that all that’s changed?
Those who are not ready to be creators
will certainly not be ready to be curators
Freed ourselves from DJs and TV programming
but what control have we flailed ourselves into?
Wasting hours a day watching 30 second videos
whose categories are heavily curated
impersonally, just for you
Remember when user preferences worked
and in searches they wouldn’t hide the whole list
of all that was relevant and new?
Evasive words
Just don't matter anymore
I think my brink is switching
This old mod is glitching
The only room for repair is your brain, because it needs stitching
No, i never had a moment i was not human
I've just learned to bulk up the fat in my skin
And love myself within
You can take your disposable words and put them in the garbage fills where they belong
Because that's what it was all along
Throw vile retorts at me
I'll just deflect them into rubble
It means nothing.
Sadie Nov 2015
acid rain trip
down the blip
of my life.
glitching internally,
gone is the gurney
down down
that rolling rolling
hallway.
won't you let
me stay?
Inspired by Acid Rain by the Growlers.
Copyright @ Sadie Whitney
forestfaith Sep 2018
Demons lurking in the light of day, as well as the dead of night.
Demons living in souls, eating them inside out.
Controlling minds of life to spew out death.
Glitching with the my spiritual eyes opened. They glitch and I see the talking, blinking, singing skills of theirs. The words they spoke walked up in the air in smoke.
Their doom be laid bare in front of them.
The coins and notes they use are like marks on their hands and foreheads too.
When the mark comes. They won't hesitate to take the opportunity to go to hell to their father of lies.
They get puffed up with the smokes and piles of soot and ashes that would soon be burned. Piled up high. Their punishments piled up high.
Their names not written in the book of Life.
Thinking that the father of lies didn't lie that they would be happy and content and satisfied if they just bow down to him...just one time.
Lord, you have shown me how dark the world is.
Lead me into your light.
Save us.
Man. The world is so dark and filled with evil. Little is light and peace and true love.
Demons are real guys. And they manipulate. They are sly and cunning. Be careful saints!! Rise up as the Children of God!! As we await his second coming and the new Jerusalem!!
Fayth Feb 2018
My face is red like the velvet cake we ate on our first date
My heart is pounding in and out of my chest
Just as the floor was pounding at our first concert
My mind is glitching as though I was back to that night
The night we tripped
The overwhelming sensation of life at my fingertips
Has taken over me
The track marks on his vein didn't change who he was
The velvet stains just like that cake only changed one thing
What changed was our being
Our being together
Our being apart
It all seemed the same
When we're together neither of us are there
When we're apart we're together
At heart
Everyone says distance makes the heart grow fonder
The distance out between us formed a troubling path way to the near future
Where my life is no longer in my hands but more or less at the end
Now my neck is covered in velvet cake
Hand prints of the past
Cover my body as though I can't rid them
As if I took a bath in the problems I cannot face
My very own velvet cake
hear the chime
of the cold constellations
that guide you
at 2:56 in the morning.
taste the worries of tomorrow
overflowing from your mug,
spilling onto your lap
of glitching faces,
distorting your body
into millions of pixels.
touch the signals
from the suicidal satellites
dictating your amygdala
in a requiem
of the winter dawn.

you lay
in a bed of clouds
under blankets
of anxious thoughts.
blue volcanoes
spew out violet insults
telling you
that you won't make it
past the milky way,
so you burn your fingertips
trying to reach for the sun
in hopes
that it will prove those indigo offenses wrong.
third-degree burns
**** your senses
and leave you
feeling nothing.
seeing nothing.
being nothing.
you look up to the sky,
eyes dripping with desperation,
only to find
that the man in the moon
left you
for another life.

and
suddenly,
at 2:57 in the morning,
you realize
that orion doesn't seem so bright to you anymore.
Ken Pepiton Jun 2023
Dear, the cost, not the idle salutation once
taught as business standard, Dear Sir,
Dear Madam,
Dear dear dear me
I do believe I must
become the tutor, of me
make the mental, sensible
{to the author with fidential zeal}
think yourself through 75 years, find

the hidden first love, the first own thing, kept
held as common sense, whosoever does mean me.
So, ever is the course wherein human events fluxuate.
----
Faust, I failed to read  when assigned.
So today, I dipped
into my own past, and found
the sense used then, the need,
in truth
to know
the world is alive.
And, as seen
through eyes a million miles away, our
shared seeing causes all our sensory arrays
to look back, and think another pace time
uses to cross space, bursts of insight, gasp

poiesis - that which "pro-duces or leads (a thing) into being'" patient work, tedious as setting type
by candlelight, sighing in knowledge, the tree
of radical aspirations to bear dozens of kinds
of fruits, some useful to life, some useless, though
we try, some sets life has been lived through, to you,
- such scenes could have ended other ways.
epochs, men have no honest measure for such
spans of time used to attain the heights
from which we look across my valley
and feel one of us, making peace
with the fact that war does not function
in reasoning contests, as war is unreasoning,

the stubborn little devil who knows only what
he wishes he had control over the use of, this
spirit of adventure, tamed in wisdom gathered
and attributed to a mystical king, truly mythical,
we know that way of singing praises, exalting men
as God's special agents, as proud of the title,
as any agency of secrets sacred national trust,
in God,
as Solomon Chase assured Mr. Lincoln,
We put our faith in the people's belief
in the goodness of the use of the money printed
and minted to pay for war and exact a capital plan,

one nation, under God, as defined
by the finest minds,-- aieee wait, fun facts, scatter
braining how much space is empty in a mind
made up enough
to devise a new form
of governing, as if all forms existing feel wrong,
to us, we freemen, with all the slaves we need,

we have the leisure to reason with antiquity
and realize, if ever there were eight billions
of possible re-connection surgings to emerge

as mind unmade up, come to watch a battle,
war and all its uses come to reason missed
understood standards force laws obediance

the idea
of thought being possible fails,
materially
in any formal structure possible only
with our  
gravity as matter's law one,
beyond free willing quarkish mean ways

One love idea, Reggae guysay, rollon
in the course, the rut, fun's t'come

Long, long long longer that you wish to learn
winding lines wishwings…
Spat like one o'dem spittin' images

In a pig's eye, one can see what we don't know.

A looping, stitching stretching stream
threading current
of consciousness, packeting
in formational preceptoriallines
of irrational reasonings insisting persist
- gutwrenching hungers are not visual.
stirring emotions is not stirring use of knowns,
arts entaling science, we agree. No nasty words.

Ghuckyew. Rhea… diversify religiously
extol the gnosis of knowing the ropes
tying tight the ifity-ness used to hold work
done by the weaver and seamster on time,
folding edges to feel flat, smooth, inside
-- where whole cloth joins cut edges
at any selvedge process,
where curves cut
from fabric woven mind wise, tend
to come undone
on mechanical extentions
of fingers and toes,
and music imagined as humms
after the setup,
as the machines imagined and eventually made up
vibrate alluring frequent acknowledgement
we know you know, we may be realized already
- looking back and front and side ways, down up
---
Judging myself unfinished, yet
done doing all assignments, yet
getting an itch to prove approval, yet
hesitating,
for lack of knowing, and laziness, yet
learning
patience's
false witness argument,
if what we preach is not true,
how could we be so sure we know

Jesus ate, in his quickened flesh, fish.
Thus, we must be persuaded,
we shall also be
fishy. Da
gone gone dagonitgone antigone gone


theater of doubt, all in white, lime-lit
blinding all who care or dare to see
as blind, the faith of the gamblers's
thrall to money love and war.

Betterment through betting, all-in…

Have you any real
estate in which you do attest, its me?

I am my own real estate, executer
am I of all that I choose to do or not
in the confines of the course of human events,

as Hoyle's mind built canals on Mars,
so now we bet we can imagine being special,
as me, on a planet with, thee, you, Sie, du, see do.
- a viral propagation plan, thorny issuances
- sniff or sneeze, but do not die trying to make
- peace with all war makes worth lying for.

As we, our wedom began, as any wedom must,
the laws of philo and phobia in science used
by us, the we at point, piercing this wall,
your reading mind accepts the bet, if
this is art, for the sake of artifice
imagined in a current form, an AI
of informing fluid finding reason to bend,
or stretch, taut as drum, a net unseen
by any bird in resistance.

Posi and Nega, sisters in myths, new myths,
affect the same unknowing rash decisions,
when in truth, statistical-knowing one thing true,
there is at the most wee-tiny scale, an emptiness,
a mean unobstructed way for right to be, or not,

and now, we are, so we made that choice.

Today, this is that way which is the only way.
Today, this map of numerable lines, in nos, laws…
sense we are all in-im
balancing percepts on precepts,
undermining certainty,
exalting godishtical oracular maxims,

Knowledge is power,
secret knowledge, you may never know,
riddle reasoning used in cogito sums
given children to solve by asking
parents proper questions,
and writing show and tells. Wanna bet?

Al Suri, spokesman for FUD,
Fear, Uncertainty, Doubt,
appears to persuade martyrs,

the illiterate prophet's utterly canonical
promise of a certain libidinous eternity,
most appealing to frustrated post pubescent boys.

Stacks of squared away blocks,
stack up as extending the reach of order
coming down from the top, whither
the light that said the single word,
according to the Prophetic voice,
Read, he heard, and I cannot, he replied,
fold here, hear me, light seen, I cannot read,

what is here for me to read, a thought,
what are you saying, read, what is reading worth,
to one who has never learned the letting out
of silent song or scream, or plea for hope,
flowing as from scribal rod in perfection,


Two things only do the people earnestly desire,
bread and the circus (Juvenal)
"Duas tantum res anxius optat, Panem et circenses"

Here, sing. Reconciled, by doing singing heard,
sing out, child, hear yourself singing as if you know
how such a thing as singings may be made up,
to seem perfectly fine,

a mused mentality, thing of thought, with something
words alone lack, essentially.

Seven Types of Ambiguity

--- at this moment, my writing records show
today is June 3, my only ever wife's birthday,
that's right, and I know that it is morning,
by the angle of the sunlight though my window,
and the leafy shade dancing over sleeping moss.
Yet at that moment he looked back to reread
Presenting a new mind
Wednesday, May 3, 2023
11:02 PM
real-time 9:52 AM… we all find that, too odd.
And glibbly mention glitching…
Query Greek logos gnosis, active in-tell seek:
Brave AI Sums it up.
The Gnosis logo is an example
of a crypto industry logo
from Global, designed
for the crypto industry.
It is an official variant
of the logo
for the SVG file format standard.
Gnosticism is a Christian belief that claims
to possess a higher knowledge acquired
on a mystical higher plane of existence.
The ancient Greeks distinguished
between two types
of knowledge: gnosis and logos.
Gnosis was akin
to "how-to"
such as
how to build a boat or ride a horse,
while logos was more akin
to academic knowledge
such as knowledge
of mathematics or logic.
The distinction between the two types
of knowledge was important I-i
n the early history {noerror}
of Christianity,
with Gnostic Christians
emphasizing
gnosis
while the Catholic Church
emphasized logos{… not logical? Ai ask}
Gnostics see themselves as a privileged class
elevated above everybody else
by their higher, deeper knowledge of God.
- higher deeper, good one, HAL
--- Yes, AI am a cyborg, and a heretic, and king
of me and many wedoms formed
with books
by authors and finishers
of faith utility tales, told
to make believers,
stop thinking this impossible, and pose
the question,
are you me, dear reader, I trow not, I am mere
when you are so near as to read my very mind.

Virtue, undefined signals sent through time
to when you stop, and see selah, as instruction
in constructing a foundational faith, establish
mental
anchor. Persist in time, be yourself a while
while
nothing makes sense, yet.

{Akio Kashiwagi, the warrior}, money maddened
survivor or apprentice or pawn
of greed's gift
of mighty right feelings,
taker's joy, loser's grief, and none
of my own,
eeeeha!
emphasis on imagine the feeling

MAGA, as when the We persisting in aliegance,
feel our national ideal We take all the Mandan had,
and waste it seeking the use of money, on credit,
to make the possibility
of human error
manifesting
in Manichean lying prophecies,
as solemnly sworn on the true revelation,
from Moses, Lycurgus, Thoth or Hiawatha,
as it is written, so it must be done,
come the time all knowing is free
for the asking
- orthodox, right, upright, gravitationally
- balancing spirit and truth as effortlessly
- as a child on a rock in a pond in tree pose,
- sent to me,
- instantly, a moment later, with a note,
- from five years ago, when my chess mate
- was five years old and told his ma,
show Grandpa

Knowledge confidence power,
believing is the verb such forces use,
by faith, we breathe, when we stop and think,
we must believe a breath is available to not fear
when all our wind is loosed, not lost,
in time, we find far higher forces

legal, Empire law, winner's of the last global war,

America, my country, right or wrong, Philip Nolan,
a ghost from summers past,
A man without a country… yet kept alive,
- alone on an island with 5G and a solar charger
Idle words arrange from data entertaining venu,
deja venu, no? Same time, same mind…
- by laughing outloud ten times, or more each day.

Physical failure of happy thoughts,
whose fault is that, the splitzoid schitzoid gnoshit

Nieztsche, ezt ni-eztscheanic logos-ical guessering being
gamed. As time passes un lost, locally accounted for.

All in, ages ago, take the card/

In writing, guaranteed, you know waddamean…
let this rock be my witness, as happy Sisyphus says,
listen to the pundits pundate exceptional fore sight

"Only a catastrophe can save us"
Slavoj Žižek - Elevate Festival 2023

Vieleicht. Ich weis nichts, aber
möglicherweiseerweise….

Alles ist, so Alles sein kann.
- waking after a time slip, inevitable
- at my age and constituted pose on point.

Gather up the fallen down, save that for later.

Proving reconstructed causal agent reaction,
volatile will
to expand
to fill the emptiness,
perceived as where no catastrophe has yet to be
- a selah level settler subtle law, still waters
- obey, under the message read obey
- acting as if we know we may imagine new
- realities, with real life on earth our goal,
- the whole truth free to be sought,
- as givens, after the religious power knot
- was snipped, and done was done,
- the genius in Alexander, swallowed
- his childish faith in the lesson, for the rush
- of power
- and peace
- of mind, alienated from all anxious patterns
- cursing recurving conception, grasp a straw
- hope takes no anxious thought,
Thinking that
could halt the chain reaction. Up, imagine, ever
upping the competing reason, grave issues
write down the reel
of all the wars's reasons,
catalog gathered sensibilities, certain fixedness,
functionally aimed
at you, readying your last excuse.
- certainty is madness

We all fall down,
the actual truth, is upto our rolling over
to rise again.

Fret nought,
Life is rough draft, really,
nonsensical, save subjectively, rejecting seeing
catastrophe except while standing on one's own head.

a bit in the confusion
of comforting zones, meek

defending diffidence, while exercising confidence,
this is life, and more fun than any game, after accepting
the yes in the promise of all yeses. Seriously.

Diffidence is a defect:
it is an undue distrust of self,
with fear
of being censured
for failure, tending
to unfit one
for duty. [Century Dictionary]

Duty done, Private, First Class. Walk away.

The we bound by war born law, pays me,
to make peace where none was,
the re-leasing of easy living,
as ware of life as of self,
breathing breath's giver's gift, sharing air,
as fish share seas, feeling

a sense, now known named auto, self
poiesis gnosisnot sticky substance of faith
imagined in hope… reali
zation, global in scope, Higgsian
in the spirit of our times.

A Thousand Day Journey, a novel event
taken as granted, a gift in passing time,
I finished this counting
to account for all the lies I ever told me.

No new thing under the sun, Nieztsche
and Solomon's proverb collections attest,
recursings face reblessing, redefining finity

engineering gut bubble noise, gurgle's good,
we all get gurgle, giggle then can follow, if

we have recovered from memorized lines,
hero stories we tell with me on the horse,
riding to announce the thing which we fear
is come upon us and I alone escaped to tell,

but I had no hammer, and I had no bell,
but I had these jagged dancing lights,
where the floaters on my eyes are
constructing cataracts as I watch,
white wall squint old men wishing to see
- Biden squint eye does not intimidate,
- the new defense secretary in his wake
rhetoric of war in real time, records we trust
in God, prove no war ever can make peace,
with calling proof enough, reproof
of instruction is the way of life,
the ruliard is imaginably infinite, if the base idea

becomes "Knowledge comes in flavors and colors",
useful for any artist's mind enabled to recover
lost time in real time with novel assistance
from grand reservoirs of rain's retained
for power to attain the steady state,
all men, wait, suff it to become as
created equal
in worth
to the functional
fortuitous continuance
of serious sharp edged tools… swords with motors,
I saw Jerry Pournelle say.
In print.
In the spirit of this mindshare.
Rightly dividing the truth with mere words,
exercising godliness, effecting fervent will
to be as plain a plan as any ever,

accept the weight of knowing we walk upright,
we need crawl only for a while, as we learn,
like riding a bike,
some things we do with machine augmented minds,
minds exposed to speeds and constant story threading

the washer first, then the nut, then the crown nut
and the cotter key, to hold the prop,
seen ******* wind across my sky,
real life, I have the image,
and have not used Photoshop in years, this is the future.
I will doubtless exist in the ever as long as HP, perhaps as long as the Amazon cloud, and the map to my current state of perfectly fine, thanks, is due to the therapy caused by being read by such as you, and gleaning from your fields/
Quinn Dec 2016
i'm everything i already knew that i was. a strong woman, with convictions that wilt like flowers that aren't meant for the 90 degree weeks we've been getting here in april. we sit around and fan ourselves with half thoughts, and you pretend that my sweat is the sweetest elixir to ever pass your lips. you make me sick with the way you look at me, but for a long time i can't stop trying to memorize the exact color of the water or the sky your eyes are. when i finally realize why, i'm taking myself in, dizzied by the likeness between her and i, and my mind, it keeps glitching as you and he run together. i'm confused at first, uncertain, but then i realize this is my subconscious speaking, the universe cross firing my faulty wiring to wake me up. you've given enough to everyone else, and i know you won't stop, but in this way it must end now. find a way to love yourself through the one you choose to love.
Monique Matheson Sep 2015
At the strike of 1:30pm, she inhales her surroundings
Of static and melting human faces
Every detail of the smiling man send her nerves
To that sharp edges of this ***** desk
And fantasies in her simple mind
Toss and turn, ideas glitching in her iris
Of snapping the necks of poor incompetent strangers
But mostly, achingly, her sweet gushing blood
That surely tastes of her dreaming unclenched fists.
******* ******* ******* ******* ******* ******* ******* ******* fuckk meeeee
Lady Misfortune Oct 2019
This is a story begun
Never ended

Everytime I try
Just shush, just listen
It's all fuzzy, glitching

I can not seem to find my motivation in anything
Unless prompted by a grade

I can pass your course, yet I'll fail my life
I'd dream myself to be something other than a student
If your class didnt take all my time

If I did not spend my nights trying to find a reason why ...
Knowledge makes me want to die
Consume my mind

A few more credits to accredit my worth

Unassisted, a lack of support tore my nature to explore
and gave me the power to put on a wry smile and lie

Mutter, "I'm fine"
Created 10.1.19

— The End —