A ****** chicken somewhere on a mountain top
of Kauai,
pecked at cashew nuts held in a hand,
then pecked at the arithmetic of the fingers,
pretending to play a game of:
from the scenes of the wind that shakes
the barley, the gray man
or that one episode
in the game of thrones: dark wings, dark words
those fingernail torture scenes...
or at least the fusion of a fake memory in part
(true in part relating to the cashews being fed)
and the the torture of listening
to khruangbin & leon bridges' - texas sun:
which is torture,
just like listening to odetari's - i love you ***
is torture,
a maasoo'Ki-Zee'ism (wing wing)
just like this is torture, but so is scribbling
qualification prose for an NVQ in spectator safety;
custard blotches of semi-thinking
like it is torture to read Olson's maximus poems
or Deleuze's and Guattari's anti-oedipus
- when torture is an uncomfortable pleasure,
even a difficult pleasure to understand,
when there's a sense - of colour
in translation
of light and when intellect is a phantom, isn't
- i'm almost teasing myself with the idea of
asking chatGPT to write me a fusion
of Celan, Cummings and Olson -
that would be torture,
so how would it look like?
it looks like this
/ in the expanse of night's quiet drift,
words emerge, like stars in blackness,
charles olson's breath in the cosmic rift,
e. e. *******'s verses, a gentle caress
and as the moon weeps, in solemn tone,
paul celan's echoes, a haunting cry,
together they dance, entwined, alone,
a fusion iof souls, in the poet's sky /
b'jeez'who's'who'who'ah'woo! (ring ring)
salvation! (would) never hit the panic
button on the march of AI:
clearly a parody of intelligence -
an encyclopaedia on steroids! nothing more!
cardinal soul in the pope's bog of god,
it was precisely sunny for an hour
before the mood of the sky changed into:
a ****** expression of a frigidity
and nuisance, a teenage girl's
"resting ***** face":
if only some justice before the monstrous
composition: stretching my fingers and enforcing
my grasp of hands positioned for
a cascade of words, without looking at
the keyboard
a heartless ******* i am not:
one of those stercus accidit moments
alternatively called: in vivo res mortuus
in a living thing a dead thing -
an egg that becomes a scrambled ego
harsh criticism of the exoskeleton
where heart and brain are all one and the same mush
just like now, torture, a pleasant torture
harpoopoo'on'pon'pomp'bluegluetruths'in'u'u'w
(last remaining exit, via phone-one-t'ism)
