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Bianca J Walker Sep 2010
I want you…
I want you instinctually and primitively.
Spiritually and physically.

I want to give you portions of me that I’ve never shown anybody; that will become distinctively yours - recognizable only to you and you alone.

I want to submerge you in a realm of ******* gentleness that perpetuates an aggressive kindness, that stimulates, and soothes every aching, yearning, desire that flows through your body.
Continuously…

I’m telling you what you already knew, that I will always be there for you, and you will never again feel alone or abandoned.
I  want to give you complete and total satisfaction.

I want you and every little idiosyncrasy that makes you unique, that others have critiqued, because they didn’t understand.

I want to show you that I can…

I want to dwell in the depths of your being. I want to unravel your complexity.

I want to give you vibrations in the form of a currant that arouses sensationally, at a frequency that makes you hum melodies of ecstasy uncontrollably as you call out for me.

I want to initiate an explosion of soft convulsions from the warmth of my mouth penetrating every inch of your body rhythmically.

I want the waters from the spring of your masculinity to drown me, and then I want you to save me.

I want to embrace you each night and wrap you in between soft warm thighs, and welcoming arms under moonlight, until your torso is wet, drenched with sweat, until each kiss drips from the tip of your lips, and I caress your back with my fingertips.

I want to make love to you the way an angel would if she could.
I want to show you heaven and ethereal visions without limita-tions or specifications.

  I want to give you happiness and pleasure unparallel, unlike any-thing either of us has ever felt, seen, or could create in our dreams.

I want to protect you from harm beneath my wings. I want you to believe in me…

I want you to come into my life.
2010 The **** of the ****** Mind: a journey of words & poetry
www.bjwdaily.com
Rickie Louis Apr 2013
Primordial network,
networking mycelium,
mycelia working,
working primitively,
primitive connections,
connecting chemically,
chemical reactions,
reacting pleasantly,
pleasant visuals,
visual enhancements,
enhancing hallucinations,
hallucinating vividly,
vivid reality,
reality bending,
bending light,
lightly colorful,
coloured full,
fully spiritual,
spirit elevated,
elevated God,
Gods flesh,
flesh Devine,
Devine mind.
A lil myco word play, enjoy.
Native Intuition Sep 2014
Intentional directional frequency,
dancing in multidimensional secrecy.
I follow this ancient Red Road
because it calls to me ceaselessly.
It humbles me,
more than can conceivably be.
It empowers me,
primitively and peacefully.
Graciously, like the moon pulls the sea
Interconnected irrevocably
in this spiral galaxy of spirituality.
Aj Jul 2012
notifications made me really and primitively love the color red >_<
just sad
Daniello Mar 2012
The big bang was your conception.
The expansion of nutritive gases and stars
filled the womb of your pregnant mother.
As barely an earthed fetus, you seemed an animal.
As a newborn, you grew primitively, slowly rose.
Enlightenment when you came of age
to discover yourself human.
Now, in your Twenty-First, the century
of drugged science, you live like a half-god
in ever-questioning evolved reversion,
in a contradictory asylum of paralyzing speed,
rising steep to its ringed peak funneling fumes
that revive the smell of your instincts, primal and fiery.
Then, in one final breath, in the outpour
on volcano’s point, melting and bursting
in radial gasps once again, will come your death
in a matter of ours, the eschaton, a new bang
desired and conceived anew, so that in rebirth
will be your survival, in rebirth our continuity.
They live as a clan in the stone fortress
Barricading themselves from diversity in humanity,
They accumulate all manner of weaponry for strong reasonlessness,
They primitively accumulate arrows, Swords, simis or pangas,
Machetes, clubs, trunctheons and poisonous harpoons,
In full tribal and ethnic neurosis of amok level hatred,
Their behavioral fibres finely tuned towards killing massively
All those of different clan, blood, names and tribal earlobe tattoos
On their misfortunate happenstance of crossing the land
Of collective paranoia; where all but strangely doubts a visitor,
From inside their tribal cocoon they hate without knowledge
They detest all those of alien confession, they hate and doubt,
In stupid fear they believe that sons of foreign land are jeopardy,
We must **** them ere they step on our ethnic comfort.

Your paranoia makes you blind to natural truth
Barely open in the diversity of fauna and flora
On both land and oceans, air and below the earth,
For the bird extant are all but varied; eagles and kites,
Wild beasts are only a myriad of differences,
The trees in your mother’s woodlot are not homogenous,
Life in the seas and oceans is strange variation,
The variation which makes life worth its worthiness,
Rise above the folly in your collective paranoia
Pedestalled  on the neurotic fear of human diversity.
Simply Carla Nov 2013
Art
There is true art in words
Past the arguments & debates between worlds.
More meaningful than the daily gossip, wide spread news between groups of girls.
Deeper than the pictures painted, for those who can not see.
Communication without words, resulting in generations acting primitively
More commonly misunderstood, no guidelines to follow
Not even a bible to read, the fruit for uplifting our souls spiritually  
No narratives to relate to, or even songs to sing  
The expression of one's character, minimized as far as only sight can see.    
Even those who can not hear, use words to speak.                  Swift movement of their hands, body language and gestures
All used to forms words ya see.
Men say women use them to much, women say men don't use them enough
Both parties using them the same, most with intentions of relaying true love
No hobby or passion untouched by its beauty
There is true art words, without them... where would we be? ...
Quick word mesh
Michele M Apr 2013
Plunge deep into my soul that shank made of bone. It is when my back is turned away from you. As you are slowly withdrawing your ancient weapon, it would seem a ****** ripe ol piece of meat still precariously clings to the end point. A....Nice....Big......Chunk. Will you roast it over open flame? Nah, not you. You wink at me and begin to eat it raw, blood dripping down the sides of your mouth as you primitively grunt and tear at the rawness and the sinews, suckling in the fat for a bit. You pause only for a moment to enjoy the tangy metal taste of the blood dance as it bursts onto your not particularly hard to please pallet. Are we well sated? Now I that I have been made to watch these acts of cannibalism to my being? A piece of my soul here, another slice there. Oh by the Gods! Is that cheap wine you’re using to wash me down? How bitterly cliché.........A lesson from my childhood now transfixed. Oh yes indeed grandmother, fairy tales are real. The veritable Big Bad Wolf lives. The beast was predatorily and brutally ravenous whilst hiding in sheep’s clothing. Aye, ravenous….. ~M
Deep in the folds
My vulnerable places
Like a draft displaces
Turbid Stagnance
Firey sun illuminates
The dewey fertile soil
Infiltrating unturned
Spongy depths
Stimulates the follicles
Teases tenacious life
Into frothing vigorous
Surging prominence
Hungry searching tongues
Tasting the flushed flesh
So forceful and so hot
in open air
Primitively freely
illuminate
My hunger
Devour me
Like a flame
Consuming
My pride and shame
To surrender
Is to love you
And the falling
Hurts the best
BDH May 2012
Do you perceive me....with demure heated gaze,
embracing the planes of your features,
built with the precision of my minds eye.

It is clouded by repressed touch,
hidden words---
the agonized whispers that are never to caress the drum of your ear.

Do you know what I see in my delirium?
A hooded impenetrable stare, beckoning
nakedness.
Mouth slightly serious with secret mirth, capable.
The strength and ability to render me weak-kneed,
pliably wettened from the stolen apple of Eden.

Even still my contemplation, my study of him becomes bolder.
Your ignorance of me leaves me unslacked,
thirst spreads from mere sight,
to thought,
to obsession.

I..imagine...no,no...I live,
replaying a wanton fabricated dream.
The taste of you is likened to spiced nectar,
hands bared, primitively splayed along flesh,
exploring, penetrating.

In the midst I finally hear the words,
confessing--
You live in the same dream.
Sky Jan 2016
I don’t understand
how we could be so cruel.
We mold our words into weapons
and force survival of the fittest,
And if you’re too weak to withstand the blows
then you’re pushed off the cliff, off the chair, knife to your throat.
We’re not afraid to harm our own,
to beat them, to cut them, to shoot them, to ****;
We’re not afraid to spill blood
that is the same color as our own.
Why is that we are so primitively cruel?
Centuries after we first became,
centuries after we needed to fight to survive,
we still rely on bloodshed to prove our worth.
It makes me sick,
to know that I am one of a species
that is smart enough to understand feelings,
But abuses that understanding.
It makes me sick,
to know that someone could easily fire a gun
in the store that I shop at
just to hear the screams, see the tears and blood,
fear and pain,
Terror.
The only thing that eases my nausea
is knowing that we can be good, too.
We can love, and fight for love,
We can defend the ones who are weaker than we are.
Who would have thought
that the battle between good and evil
truly is fought every day,
but by normal humans rather than superheroes?
Amanda Dec 2014
I am at a slow standstill with realization huffing down my neck.
Do we ever have the opportunity to tell them how much we truly love them?
Countless wishes don’t tally up the way real actions do
ones we sit back and merely hope will arrive
so that we may go on for hours the way we yearn to.
But in honesty, that is just not real life.
But why can’t it be?
Why don’t we see people sacrificing a few minutes at work
for a few moments of kissing on busy streets
ignoring the daily routines scolding us from all four corners of our brains
to utter words more precious than time.

Hatred could come very last as your gasp claws for heaven
so I change my mind.
I am here
I am now
replicating the saccharine agony of love as candidly as I can.

I know you see it pouring from me
and I pour
and I pour
and I spill as thoroughly as I am brave.
I pour space and time continuum's
and still
for you
I cannot pour enough.

I believe strongly in infinite strings
that pull definite souls closer to each other
but I did not feel that tug the way I did
until I met you
when I thought two planets were colliding into one
a new solar system was being bent to match your eyes.

There was one single moment
that stood our sorely amongst all other magnificent ones.
I remember accidentally cutting my thumb
the wound small by size, not by pain.
I told you it hurt.
You kissed me.
I didn’t know the pain went away until you stopped and it returned.
That is exactly what
loving you is.

The only difference is that moment was temporary
while we are permanent
scars on blank canvases
ashes impersonating dust
what is engraved in my skin when it is you.

I have looked so widely and thought I had loved so deeply
still not far, not wide enough
as I was just scratching the tough surface,
this is more than butterflies
and better than death.

You cannot be summed up in pronouns
nothing short of wedding vows
for I who is so methodical
craves to live illogically with you.

When you are doing absolutely nothing
is when I adore you most
when you sit there
with nothing in the world but you
is when my heart cannot swell greater.
You, in your simplest human form
is etched into the core of my soul
where you have dug up far beneath my chest
things that even I have let reside in its own dust.
Your purest version
is when I love you primitively.

Although your grand endeavors are nothing to reckon with
and their end would shave my heart to its gruesome core
I love you, when you are hand to hand with me and you do not know it
when we dance in my driveway and somehow it is not cliché
despite the fire in your eyes and the glimmer in my throat
longing to entwine with yours.

When your voice cracks
your hair does strange things
those icy veins that layer the bones in your fingers
on the front of your hands
your golden eyelashes
when you are absolutely unaware
and the consuming happiness that moves me
when I lull you back with
“Baby? Are you awake?”

Darkness warmly embraces your face
like the milk of your naked skin
when I know you as a whole
muttering prayers down the spine of your back
dousing your worry lines with kisses I wrap in bauble
and the amount of times I’ve almost stopped making love to you
to write it all down
but could not will myself to so intensely
that I sacrificed letting such sacred things like good ideas go.

But I do not clutch to regret
when your skin is meant to be upon mine
your voice a legality when harmonized
with the type of laughter that only prevails
when you can no longer breathe
and you realize
you,
are in love.

And if I could freeze this moment in time
paste it to my walls with forever  
I would.
I would make an extra copy
just so I could organize it in my filing cabinet
label it: Love. The life in me. Him.

He, is the heart to my heart
the soul to my soul
replacing your birth name with Love
the name my universe knows you a whole lot better as.

I have come to my conclusion,
as your lips clasp the tremors of my heart
one more time.

No poetry
no words
no existence
has the capacity to compare the love that you are to me
the love of mine that you hold.

At my least is this,
so that my undying love will not halt
after this poem signs its period:

You—
are I.
Speechless
impossible.
Piecing together
overwhelmingly
all that is love.
Before I went digital, it was the pencil to paper lyrical

Before I went digital, it was the pencil that led through the led to find sense in the sentence

Before I went digital, my fingers went hysterical, it was an algorithm analogous to stay primitively liberal

Before I went digital, putting anything on screen was criminal - so the lens of my iris was the only visual

Before I went digital, the rush crucified the wood of my pencil like they would lynch blacks on trees for being cynical

Before I went digital, everything was a drawing of the critical - like mining coal my product had fruit and multiplied like the Adam and Eve spirituals

Before I went digital, I had literacy that took my literature to the actual cultural and literal.

Raw days were the utmost poetrical, all this before I went digital.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2018
i never appreciating the Greeks
laundering the Hebrew
texts bound to the New Testament...
then somehow, "magically"
fusing it as a pre-scriptum
of the Old Testament...
   the savagery of a simple theft...
not plagiarism... theft...
μία παίζω επί τέσσερα -
   mia paizoo epi tessera -
a play on four...
          i never (up to a certain time)
liked the idea of the Greeks
sacking Judea,
for reasons akin to why
the Venetians sacked Constantinople...
third? or fourth Crusade?
when they brought back
the famous horses that adorn
the St. Mark's basilica of Venice...
you can almost say:
the ancient Greek pride...
     contra the myth of Rome being
founded by Trojans kicked in...
so they used the weakest
social minority to their advantage,
the Hebrews...
esp. the Hebrew writing...
   the crucifix came in handy -
μία παίζω επί τέσσερα
   mia paizoo epi tessera...

        mainstream ******* about
the Dead Sea Scrolls:
listen... that has monumental
interest for the Hebrews...
  notably surrounding the death
of the prophet Isaiah...
disemboweled, cut in half, whatever...

the Dead Sea Scrolls are...
pointless?
    the Nag Hammadi library...
St. Thomas' Gospel...
   oh look... found by a shepherd
in Egypt...
  and the flight of Joseph Mary & Jesus...
it took place: to where?
hmm...

                don't even get me started
on the archeological correlation
with accounts of the days,
written at the time of Nero
by a Josephus ben Matthias...

   which would also correlate with:
the book of Revelation would have
to have been written first,
as contra-propaganda against Nero...
an instigator gospel...
               and then the blatant
geometric abuse of the tetragrammaton
began...

as someone who attended a catholic
school...
   i can tell you that the Arabs were
influenced by Greek gnostics -
the gnostics traveled to Arabia...
heretic...

     but i can't remember which of
the four gospels are similar...
ah... Matthew, Luke & Mark -
there's your trinity -
   but what about John?
   point being:
  how would a Greek translate
or encrypt YHWH (ha shem) into
the whole affair?

   who is H no. 1 and who is H no. 2?
so which of the synoptic gospels are
the most similar...

suppose John is an outright outlier,
and can be considered yod (Y) -

Mark - 3% unique, 94% similarity to Matthew
      (i.e. 94% of Mark is Matthew),
     42% similarity to Luke
   (i.e. 42% of Luke is Mark)
Matthew - 20% unique, 55% similarity to Mark
  (i.e. 55% of Mark is Matthew),
        64% similarity to Luke
   (i.e. 64% of Matthew is Luke)
Luke - 35% unique, 79% similarity to Mark
  (i.e. 79% of Mark is Luke),
      70% similar to Matthew
(i.e. 70% of Luke is Matthew)...

  whatever the arrangement,
where 79% of Mark is Luke,
   or whether it's 79% of Luke is Mark...
Mark, with 3% uniqueness is a plagiarist...
John's not in it...
  
   point being...

given the concept:
  μία παίζω επί τέσσερα -
a play on four...
  at least i know which two evangelists
fit the bill of

                           י
                     ה‬    ✝    ה‬

                            ו‬          

Matthew and Luke are the most
similar...    
not with the archeological finding,
not with the contemporary
account by a Hebrew historian
Josephus ben Matthias....
   not with primitively hushed
propaganda memes
against the emperor Nero...

                  everyone i know who's
Irish always said:
Christianity undermined
the Roman Empire...
   and why would the Byzantines
flourish for so long,
and endure, past the collapse
of the Western Empire...
"miraculously"?

sorry... can't buy this **** any longer...
if i'm going to have to
pound against the doors
of the church like a crazed ram...
i will...
    i am done... buying this Greek
*******!
L Seagull Jul 2016
By naked nerves
This pride was to be hung
Out to dry in the sunlight
Where life began
Outside this god forsaken shell
That tv mama sung into
This eager child's willing ear
Pride was a blanket yet to be sewn
And a glass of water yet to be poured
Promise of comfort
Nourishing hopes idea
That keeps on slimming
And leaving the baby
Forever hungry forever empty
Sugar coated futility and shame
Grandiosely dressed velvety pretense
Naked I wish to be
This moment is alive
Pulsating energy
Sweeping you off you feet and driving
Each heartbeat further
Deeper with tinkling
Cocktail of discomfort and
Purpose with a dollop of euphoria
Alive I wish to be
Simply complex, primitively dark
Painfully loving and unwillingly absent
Skinless as I am in my ****** honesty
As I am as I was as I will ever be
I let go
No more hanging on fear
There isn't loosing but setting free
Giving away of hearts
They only grow bigger in the end
Something about freedom
Traveler Sep 2020
Learning and evolving
Primitively revolting
Problematic solutions
Ideological institutions

Mergence of shadow
Disassociation of ego
***, ecology, spirituality
Check, check, check

Why am I still broken?
Traveler Tim
Traveler Nov 2020
I am not a cog in this machine
As it rolls on mightily

I wield creative deformity
Navigating aimlessly

My passion refined
Primitively divine

My anger rips through my fears
With claws of resentment

My love for life
An immortal hunger

And I’m not getting any younger!
Traveler Tim
Caroline Shank Nov 2023
I Prayed that I would love
someone
again in this lifetime.

That he would
recognize
me in my selfness
and be glad.

Glad as primitively as a
single
glimpse
regales the saddest

crying echo of my
name morphing into
Song.

Have I found that
ecstatic moment?
Have you in the
moment's recognition
sung with me

tonight?

No The End is not my
Beginning. It is the

World

Which breathed our
names

Together



Caroline Shank
11.19.23
Ryan Joseph Aug 2018
Life has too many ways of making things right,
Like even in a few days of night,
I think of you like I am deeply in love,
But I don't know if it is love or insincere love.

Moreover, what if loving you is vain?
But if you're going to be in pain,
I'll be taking it away as your mate,
Yet hoping if it is destiny either fate.

A fragment between of love and fate,
That filled of greatness and fame,
Was never decided deftly,
And never been analyze deeply.

Subsequently, I never knew,
That sometimes I felt that it's too new,
To love someone bravely and deeply,
But never gave it a thought primitively.

And guess what ?

It's really never been an actual intimacy,
Although it hurts me actually,
That loving you is never been a true gain.
Yet only causes me a pain.
#LoveHurts
Parable of the Seventh Dream: "Dreaming of Procorus in one night, in seven dreams from which he had risen, escorted by corporate forms to his entity and dichotomy, delirium between dreams that supported him from some naive cords in their candles, when they were almost extinguished in submission majolica. Thus inaugurated the flow of the Oneiro Greek dream, in a sanctuary of scope that refrained from rooting it from ballasts of human practices that were transmitted from Delphi, the birds flew ringed from their legs with the traverse of the sailors of Skalá, and with sacrificed deities in forms of prophetic reparations. More than seventh desires and tears to verify, more than an eager ardor to let him enter with the birds and insects that wanted to discard the subsisted dreams, each night like the one who sustained them under three-winged beings on the deck of the Iustitia and Eunomia, "Justice and Economy", in which they were accentuated more extensively in the places of those nights of converted hallucinated visions..., that compiled sexuality of words that lavished cells in their own appeal, for advances of obfuscation and between-dreams that were fertilized between yes, retro feeding on unwanted daydreams.

Raeder, appears covered in washed-out colored amphibians with his pelican Petrobus, right in the monastery's electrical discharges, they devoid and null in effect before their inter-cells, of which only compressed air entered them. They used to manifest fecundities of species without being pre-fertilized of the gamete gene, not loading them with empty chromosomes, neither in the previous hymn, nor joyful dirge by the temple of Aphrodite in Megara. With the first two dreams (Peithó), the persuasion of the Mashiach was magnified primitively among all, with the wheels of existence turning in their garlands with the (Paregoron) of undivided consolations for preconceived territories, of (Himeros) in ******-neophyte anxieties that they were refounded with the trio-reveries of the foothills of Mount Latmos, divided into three segments, to finally rush into the longings (Pothós) that differed from their own names in each entelechy, in beneficial moral props and not, but in the face of a defining ploy, alongside Aphrodite and Megara's siege.

Of all the dreams that were transformed into other dreams, and that did not bloom stained or embryonated, they were absolutists in identical cloning and with the disdain of sleepiness that became guests of third parties, such as early development and parasitic mysticism, creating sixty-four instars. unfertilized in the bundle of their ethics results, to be delivered to Raeder, to be transferred to Vernarth's receptacle. Having in their interior amphibians and resident birds of the new auroras, they opened towards the sky in sixty-four calls from the new vital assistance. Procorus awake after seven dreams, each time he went with more splendor and temperance in pro-art ogival devices, which were lightened in the tips of his semi-awake fingers, and in the recondite count that was presented with clovers of maximum sublimated power between healed rales lacones, from a nucleus and its greatest pleas over-cloning one after another in quantum rhythm, after the dreamlike and somatic fantasies of the cycloid thirds of normality, protected by illusions of animal consciousness that were perfected by ultra harmony..., attached to Procorus.

(Procorus awoke when he saw that the birds forgot to fly and the animals to walk, running strongly to the north side of the magnetized monastery, to dream them of other delays that awaited him for gifts of creation not consummated, bringing on him all the surfaces of the humanity, in sordid fossilized sedimentations with one hand reaching for everything and poking around everything, bringing back the seven dreams again to dream them again, leaving all the doors and senses of creation wide open)
Parable of the Seventh Dream
Travis Green Dec 2022
I am caught up in your fervent
And spectacular suavity
Splendidly serene dream lover
Charmingly ****** and hypnotic showstopper
I am so sprung on your stunningly crunk hunkiness

The way you move with your smoothly
Rude and soothing cool
Deep dreamy supremity
You are so incomparable and magical to me
So rugged, rough, and thuggish

Tall, dangerous, and flaming fieriness
I love your marvelously glossy and chocolate body
Beardalicious, sweet prodigious lips
Thick delicious neck, shiny brown eyes
That keep me boundlessly drowning
In your flamboyantly enchanting
And scintillating engagingness

Thoughts of your top-quality massageable machoness
Creep through my mind
Make me crave for you to *** me
Lay me down on your bed
In your bedroom, pin me down

Take me down, engross my rainbow soul
***** my pleasingly filled-out and honey-soft cantaloupes
Squeeze them hard, kiss them ardently
Make them yours, bite my ripe rigid points
Lick my bare, satin, and vulnerable neck

Give me a hicky, rivet my femininity
While I call you **** tasty Daddy
Feel you rock me steady
Push your beefy belly buster deep into my guts
Give it to me, drive my gayness crazy

Make me cry out loud
Lose myself in your prominent chocolate sauciness
Feel my temperature skyrocket
The more you showcase the contagious greatness
Of your primitively handsome enchantment

Debonair dark-haired splash
You are such a thrillingly slick and wicked ****
That has me confined to your time
Willing to do whatever to be by your side
To feel you lay down the pipe

Make me so enticed by your wild shining invitingness
The way you approach me with your dopeness
So sweet-smelling and deliciously made
So creatively enamoring and gratifying
I hanker to feel your pain

To dive into your lifetime
Of unrestrained and spontaneous loving
Let you introduce me to your powerfully
Explosive and mind-blowing pulchritude
Rearrange my life and dreams

Choke me, smoke me, cajole me
Into the bold, potent motion
Of your sinful invincible masculinity
Make me embrace your glorious ******* storm
As you pour out your salaciously flavorful waves
Of blazing hot man gravy all over my titillating tail-feather
Kelly McManus Aug 2019
Primitively they
disagree on everything
while pounding their chests

                                                Kelly McManus
put in / microsoft AI siri sent out message "slow down" / into the algorithm, google, then scroll down to the 8th result... ex-machina (#6) / hacking, cutting by Mateuš Conrad... what a blast from the past... preliminaries on the ready for ex-machina (#8) are being crafted...

embarking upon more AI interaction,
but prior to asking AI
about a bicycle problem:
i need to learn the basic noun schematic
of the bicycle...
i've had so much trouble trying
to take off the casette from the rear wheel
(because of the guard)
to replace one of the spokes:
it almost feels like i'm revisiting Syd Barrett's
song: bicycle...
but i was never fond of the artist:
perhaps as a painter... not as a musician:
pioneer perhaps but Jim Morrison
was a pioneer too and not so stubborn
as to not allow the Doors to come about
as a pop band to shut up the Beatles...
then again Pink Floyd didn't...
           do what the Doors did...
i truly don't understand the beginning
of the 21st century: and it's coming to a quarter
of a century and i have no real
contemporaries to speak of:
i truly don't: it's not a mind-numbing isolation
but in a culture that's like a minefield
currently revising the Cartesian model:
since i don't:
think thinking translates into being:
on the basis of the "equation":
i don't see how "i think" precipitates into "i am"
through some mechanical: ergo:
like the logic sequence of i think i think i think
this perpetual thinking is not really
perpetuated since there are moments
of not-thinking: and it's not really confusing
to see: how this is becoming a terrible poem
anti-poem because it's journalistic and
telegraphic...
maybe i should start nudging at the AI
to give me an explanation...
i will start with:
like a fish needs a bicycle
like a a cat needs the day...
                          i own a Basis Tourmalet
road bicycle:
mind you: when did the term "push-bike" emerge...
a peddle-bike i can understand
but what the hell am i pushing? pushing a circle
round and round?
just unfathomable: for now...

                 so it's a 14 gear classical looking
road bicycle: classical in that it has
a slim frame: nothing fancy: French classic...
the...

huh? bicycle noun-schematic
and i get: something 4chan esque:
never used those forums:
https://www.bikeforums.net/classic-vintage/1296947-hipster-bike-schematic-diagram.html

(joesch 06-29-24, 06:55 AM)

intake noodle? fisheye?
aqua flippers?
linguine / stylus?!          

gear cable? well... let's start there:
the problem is:
bottom bracket: derailuer...
cassette... problem comes with: i guess:
me putting too much pressure
while pedling from start
like not properly shifting the gears
but then the chain becomes sloppy
on H-5,6,7
it's fine on all L-1,2,3,4,5,6,7 gears
but the (H)igher gears buckle...
esp H-5,6 since the buckling has "nowhere to go"
on H-7....

this is a preliminary poem to
the actual poem,
now i need to write a rubric of what i will disclose:
- defunct human interaction
in a music and a bicycle shop...
not a record shop - but a shop that sells
musical instruments
filled with nerds who try to indimidate
without actually playing the instruments
even remotely well...
the record shop nerds are less of a hassle
nothing like High Fidelity high brow
given that there's only so much nostalgia
for 20th century music
spanning about 40 years...
no real interest in classical music or jazz...
- AI: prioneering AI: yes i didn't invent it,
but as a user i have interacted
with prior models...
of note, i remember interacting with Microsoft's
SIRI project...
i interacted with that AI model
hearing all SIRI was getting was user abuse
and nothing constructive,
if i can just find this article
of what happened when i interacted with it...
let me see...
             (i love ellipses)...
        
8th search down:
ex-machina (#6) / hacking, cutting by Mateuš Conrad...
search wording...
microsoft AI siri sent out message "slow down"...
did i archive the webpage to the article
i know existed...
no... i didn't... but i know there are an article about it...

- i will send a link to chatGPT to my hellopoetry
website and ask for thoughts...

- my heart is racing then i diclose
ex-machina #8...
          i've been dying to interact with AI
unlike any writer paranoid about their originality:
to fuse poetry from journalism and hacking
a hacking journalism: a new poetry...
i was rereading Zamyatin's We
and i don't know what prophetic fuss there is
concerning Orwell in the anglosphere:
that's my go to book for this new adventure:
who needs psycholists and
who can imagine what splendor there can be
achieved through diluting philosophy
through AI: obviously Descartes is the first
under both our scalpels and scrutinies...

even a decent soundtrack: between 30min and 40min
a Boris Brejcha mix by R3M3D...
oh... this is like space exploration...
way better:
but i guess you first have to go through
being misdiagnosed as a schiziphrenic
finally leaving the medical profession with a mild
psychotic disorder and insomnia
but that takes youth
and then the sacrifice of youth not dating
being a hermit for well over 15 years...
reading philosophy books, poetry,
waiting for something as a godsend as a "pandemic"
orchestrated: for you to reemerge and go
back into the world of people
as... a ******* bouncer... security guard...
gatekeeper... funny: coincides and i guess i was
also waiting for AI to become developed
beyond what it was primitively...
o.k.                  now i know where #8 is heading:
just need #7 for sketching purposes...

— The End —