"simulated" poems
What do you know of war?
First person shooter
Simulated gun fire
computerized blood splatter
What do you know of war?
Tag team alliance
Kids slaying kids
for virtual dollars
What do i know of war?
I saw the carnage
Devastation, the horrors
The smell of death
What do i know of war?
The pain haunts me
every day
every hour
It NEVER goes away!
War ain't no game, bro!
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 8:53 AM UTC
‘I am…’ 'Or am I’? Who can say?
‘A posteriori’ leads the way
For the extra and the ordinary
Axiomatic sway,
In the gravity of corollary,
‘A priori’ interplay
Ataraxic overlay of anxious automation,
As the innocence of dissonance delay.
Practicing semantic contemplation,
In willfully prevenient interpolation,
Civilly disobedient in expediently seeming disarray,
Forecasts in vague extrapolation
Contrasts the millennial contagion
Already underway,
Filling nihilistic voids with particles in waves,
To interpret dreams of Freud to free Oedipus’s slaves,
A degreeless scholastic who never misbehaves,
Simulated humanoid dramatic in the affect that he craves,
Inflating linguistics in acrobatic raves,
A thespian who plans conation with legacy engraves.
The probabilistic determiner of cosmogenous debates,
An apperceived inquirer of qualitative states,
Inspiring proprietor of dismality abates.
Challenging aporia as epistemic oscillates,
Stoically, heroically, ‘one’ who amalgamates,
Circling the infinite in hermeneutic calibrates.
An escaped prisoner from depressive disillusion,
Of an introspective extrovert who finds solace in confusion,
The personable recluse fighting an illusion
Breaking down the nuances of every institution.
Calculating consequence as time goes to infinity
Revolutionary commonsense of principal utility,
An opinionated adversary,
to the realist without evidence,
Theorizing in futility,
Stipulating every sense leading to the virility of the pretense that dominates community.
Divergently converging all the efforts we’ve personified,
Inadvertently submerging old traditions that unethically were codified,
Hastening the urgency for purging that which cannot be modified through the merging of the certainty that will no longer coincide,
Stationing the levies to finally stem the tide,
Of periodic enmities disguised to be necessities so blatantly deified.
Observing moral sentiments, perched upon eternity,
As consequential regiments are expounded universally,
To unstratify the residents indiscriminately
And identify quantum elements spiritualistically,
Changing collective behavior individually,
Socializing constructs in joint ventured logo therapy.
Nov 16, 2018
Nov 16, 2018 at 8:07 AM UTC
Family Reunion
Had dinner with my parents tonight,
this week was the first time I’ve seen them together in my entire life,
honestly,
and even though I left home at 14,
all of the blame,
can’t really be put on either them or me,
because my parents had broken up,
since long before I was woken up,
separated for so long,
I often wondered if they were even ever together,
I brought them together for my birthday,
October 2016,
my father flew in from The States,
we all met in Thailand where my mom lives,
dinner was difficult,
my mom is losing her mind,
while she’s sitting there spilling her soul,
my dad just sits there and asks meaningless questions,
my mother sitting there saying how she has no money,
how she has no family other than us,
how she has no shoes on her feet,
and no real place to call home,
like I’m supposed to feel guilty for that,
like I don’t send her money all the time,
like I wasn’t in Thailand just to visit her,
like I’m a man now so she chooses to blame me,
like she’s chosen to blame every other man that’s ever been in her life,
how many husbands has she had now,
4 or 5,
maybe 6 or 7,
I don’t know I’ve lost count.
Seriously,
ridiculous,
what do you say to your mom,
when you think she’s a ****
and I know that might sound like a terrible thing to say,
but it’s the truth and I refuse to censor myself,
my,
self,
doesn’t even feel like me anymore,
not even sure if I’m a human let alone a man,
man,
the Atomic Family is more like an Atomic Bomb,
what a mess we’ve made,
and all in the name of what,
I have no idea,
honestly,
well,
it’s all probably a simulation always,
at least that’s what Elon Musk says,
“There’s a 1 in billions chance that we are not living in a Simulated Reality.”.
Makes me want to tell my parents,
that they are just part of a computer program,
but they’d probably just call me crazy,
and then just disappear…
∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆
from The new book '777' available worldwide on Amazon:
https://www.amazon.com/dp/1548700746
Jul 16, 2017
Jul 16, 2017 at 10:53 PM UTC
Creatures crawl from under the roots of trees and bugs scatter from the pockets of the lost to the cadence of sprinkling rain
Silence in the woods of missused life brings out the sounds of wind screaming past the tightened ropes and rusted knives
Those who walk through the aokigahara forest hear a symphony of life that persists through the maimed, a festival of tents and people strung up like decorations as if it was meant for a parade
Nature reclaimed the unused death of unwanted bodies and the rain drained flesh from bones, simulated hell and suicide is what's found soon after passing the warning signs in red and white marked zones.
Mar 31, 2016
Mar 31, 2016 at 2:23 PM UTC
i am on a disk
and the pale, blue dot
is paler than ever before
above me
is more blue
a simulated sky
and a basin we've come to call
our shores
uncoupled
untethered and undeterred
there's a tree in my yard
whose roots reach
the barriers of our world
they long to touch
that void
that would see the waves
we tide
frozen still
Apr 5, 2021
Apr 5, 2021 at 2:13 PM UTC
I'm A Lab Rat
You Heard Me Right
I Am An Experiment Of The Divine
Everything Simulated
Same Smiling Faces And The Scowl Of Enemies
The Same Endless Loop Of Activities
Work Everyday Of Your Life
To Find Whats At The End Of The Maze Is Paper
Vials Constantly Puncture My Skin
Injecting Emotions
The Divines Hands Constantly Working
*No No No You Will NeverFinish This Maze*
How Much Depression Does It Take
To Crush The Human Spirit
One Of 7 Billion Mice
Our Lives Composed To Have Ups And Downs
So Close Yet So Far
Dont Let Her Finish The Maze!
Make Her Loved One Crush Her Soul
That'll Slow Her Down
I Am A Test Tube Baby
Born From Experimental Parents
I'm Tired Of Being Torn In Half
Trying To Create A Future
C'mon It's Only About 80 More Years
Its The American Dream Baby
It's The Divines Dream
To Understand Us As We Try To Find Our Way
So I Sit Here With Straight Lined Lips
And Eyes That Can Peirce Flesh
As They Decided To Play
A Little Devotion Will Never Hurt
Lets Test Some Chemicals
Greenhouse Gases Inhaled Through Tiny Lungs
I Want To Believe There Is Good In The World
Now Those Beliefs Are Crushed Too
But From The Concrete
Who Knew A Flower Would Grow
I Always Have Hope Of A Better Tomorrow
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 10:55 PM UTC
since i turned into a nocturnal creature i’ve changed a bit,
i started the theological arithmetic:
(right hand) thumb, index, middle finger(s) -
january february march,
ring, pinky & pinky (left hand) -
april may june,
ring middle index (left hand)
july august september -
thumb (left hand) thumb and index (right hand)...
of yes, intelligent design...
now make a hole using your thumb & index finger,
then ensure your thumb goes in & out from that whole...
like god, say: oh **** i forgot the piston!
guess what’s the slang term for a russian in polish?
kacap.
guess what’s the slang term for a german in polish?
szwab (shvab) /
i know, i too wish it was sax...aphone.
guess what’s the slang term for a dwarf in polish?
karakan.
but i said, there are really two branches from the 20th
century growing into the 21st century,
there’s the proustian branch that’s a cul de sac...
and there’s the joycean branch, that leads to ezra pound et al.,
finnegans wake (which i have read) i can a 50p with an invention
of a terminology: uncoded phoneticism, i.e.
alpha bravo charlie delta echo, only because:
prirates’ aye, eye and lie and high sounded pretty much the same
even though they were spelled differently.
uncoded phoneticism means you use a coding of language
from thought / silence in a way that elevates it
from the standard usage, from novelty interests
of a righteous narrator crafting new characters...
of course your writing will appear chaotic... but in reality
it will not be... trust me... i simulated paranoid schizophrenia
for seven years... fooled three psychiatrists
and regained a chance to provoke.
nicholas ii is smiling at me from a banknote i own,
and i have a kopek’s worth of currency from dostoyevsky’s times.
Dec 4, 2015
Dec 4, 2015 at 7:52 PM UTC
Had dinner with my parents tonight,
this week was the first time I’ve ever seen them together in my life,
honestly,
and even though I left home at 14,
all of the blame,
can’t really be put on me,
because my parents had broken up,
since long before I was woken up,
separated for so long,
I often wondered if they were even ever together,
I brought them together for my birthday,
2016,
my father flew in from The States,
we all met in Thailand where my mom lives,
dinner was difficult,
my mom is losing here mind,
while she’s sitting there spilling her soul,
my dad just sits there and asks meaningless questions,
my mother sitting there saying how she has no money,
how she has no family other than us,
how she has no food on her feet,
and no real place to call home,
like I’m supposed to feel guilty for that,
like I don’t send her money all the time,
like I wasn’t in Thailand to visit her,
like I’m a man now so she has chosen to blame me,
like she’s chosen to blame every other man that’s ever been in her life,
how many husbands has she had,
six?
Seriously,
ridiculous,
what do you say to your mom,
when you think she’s a ****
and I know that might sound like a terrible thing to say,
but it’s the truth and I refuse to censor myself,
my,
self,
doesn’t even feel like me anymore,
not even sure if I’m a human let alone a man,
man,
the Atomic Family is more like an Atomic Bomb,
what a mess we’ve made,
and all in the name of what,
no idea,
honestly,
well,
it’s all probably a simulation always,
at least that’s what Elon Musk says,
“There’s a 1 in billions chance that we are not living in a Simulated Reality.”
Makes me want to tell my parents,
that they are just part of my computer program,
but they’d probably call me crazy,
and then just disappear…
∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆
Dec 26, 2016
Dec 26, 2016 at 12:10 PM UTC
It’s 5:04 AM, as I lie awake going on hour number two.
I dreamt of you,
As I often do.
I always awake with a jolt,
The tangibility of your simulated self
Jarring,
My senses overstimulated as if we had touched for real.
When I ponder on you, on memories of us
In my conscious mind,
I have a difficult time stringing together
The details of you,
Years apart having left your image
Grainy and unfocused, although effervescent.
Yet when my eyes close,
You make your way clear into focus,
Every detail of your physical and spiritual form so vivid
As if I’m really experiencing you,
As if you’re dreaming of me too,
And we’ve actually escaped to another reality
Where nothing has changed or faded.
Is this where we now reside?
The current version of us is no longer compatible with the software of reality,
Our data kept in the cloud
Where dreams are stored.
It isn’t real in the realness of reality,
But it’s so vivid, more lucid than a lucid dream,
That I can’t shake the feeling that I’m experiencing the real you
In the only form I’m now able to download.
Aug 3, 2021
Aug 3, 2021 at 1:59 PM UTC
I used to dance alone in my room
I’d spin the spun black under needle
And turn till my walls became one
I’d stretch my face in strain
And mimic pain in movement
I’d measure arms and hands to
The waver of the music
I cried in concaved chest and
Screamed in legs splitting air,
Laughed in fingers spreading wide
And collapsed to the beat’s final throe
I became a simulated symphony, and
So became each dance;
My afternoon secret
I’d forget words and
Mesh into mangled body melody
mmmmmm those hands droning guitar and
a distant voice
in verse,
drumming, drumming
My body curled around each syllable,
Both in question and answer
It was pain, yes
It was heartache
Yes, it was beautiful
But I soon realized
It was not mine
- c
Jan 13, 2019
Jan 13, 2019 at 1:09 PM UTC
The grains of sand
Sift through his hands
And we can only watch
Water trickles
The moon becomes a sickle
And all we do is watch
The hand is bored
Away says the Lord
And he throws us to the side
*I made some watchers in the sand
All they do is sit and stand and till the land
I'm sick to my core of these people in my hand!*
To the hourglass we were thrown
To reap a punishment none of us had sown
Time had become simulation
An age of a simulated God was known.
As time, the grains of sand
Sift through the simulated hands
All we do is watch
We are man.
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 7:46 PM UTC
Eloquence is irrelevant in times of relevance
For it is not the beauty of the words that sets precedence
Rather the idea behind them that shows brilliance
Any man can speak articulately without substance
There is no power behind such simulated statements
Those with complete control of their clarity claim valiance
So, go forth and form your feelings with eloquence absent
Jan 25, 2013
Jan 25, 2013 at 4:26 PM UTC
I didn't take a photograph of the statue of Robert Burns.
His sightless eyes were looking out over Dunedin,
the most Scottish town in the southern hemisphere,
and there was a seagull, not a pigeon, standing on his head.
I would have called it "Robbie Burns and Friend."
And I didn't take a picture of the bus shelter
painted all over with jungle foliage and a tiger
peeping out over the simulated signature of Henri Rousseau.
The title would have been "This Bus Shelter is a Forgery."
Neither did I photograph another painted wall,
one round a cemetery full of ornate and sombre tombs,
with a large and skilfully executed advertisement -
Renta Sanitarios Mobiles (Hire Mobile Toilets).
It would have been called "Is there no Respect for the Dead?"
I didn't take the photo of a Fijian policeman.
A pity, for he had such a practical uniform,
very smart and cool,
in a tasteful shade of policeman-blue,
based on the traditional sulu
with a striking zigzag hem.
The title would have been "A Policeman in a Skirt?!"
I couldn't take a photograph of sunset over Popocatépetl
– although the sun was setting in a red and golden haze,
and the most romantically named mountain is just
what you imagine a perfect volcano should be,
even to the wisp of steam at the peak
– because the sun was actually setting over Ixtaccíhuatl
and "Sunset over Ixtaccíhuatl" doesn't have quite the right ring
The shape of the mountain is not very picturesque either.
Yes, I would have called that one "Sunset over Popocatépetl"
– if I could have taken it.
My camera wouldn't focus on the crescent moon
hanging over the Egyptian skyline,
horns pointing up, so close to the Equator,
and the evening star (Venus or some more ancient goddess)
just above and almost between the points.
If that one had worked it would have been called "Islamic Moon."
I couldn't possibly have taken a photograph
that would do any justice to the young piano student
in a Hungarian castle
hammering out Liszt as if the hounds of hell were after her,
but if I could, I would have had to call it "Apassionata."
And I didn't even have time to get my camera out
to take a picture of the wild humming bird
darting green and unconcerned
among dilapidated tenements in the heart of Mexico City.
But that living jewel shines bright in my memory,
even without a photo.
I don't know what I would have called that one,
and I'm sure it doesn't matter.
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 9:48 AM UTC
Your contagious grin,
Your bubbly happiness,
Your zestful spirit.
You are an unintentional liar,
with a simulated appearance.
The world misled by this facade.
I know you though,
as clear as the cloudless sky,
and I hear them all,
the thunders,
in your sighs.
Jan 13, 2019
Jan 13, 2019 at 1:09 PM UTC
Truth is
I can blame them for breaking my heart
I can scream loudly and tell of how much I gave
My loyalty, my heart, my love....
Everything my father instilled in me
Though nonsensical, truth is, sometimes the very best is not desired by them
Truth is, signals of disaster went ignored
For the thought of life like the Cleavers
Fairy tale of 50's era love
Blinded by the immediate
Disposed warnings of the past
Miscarrying the trust of my future
All to live in the now
Now, this moment of smiles
This instant where laughter prevails
Exchanges of lured glances
Mine escaping as i'm exposed
Emotions spill over
Secrets, I cannot keep
Excitement at the possibility of him
Weakens the walls
Eventually they tumble
To reveal what was once hidden
While his...yeah his... counterfeit at best
Simulated exercises
Maybe all to arrive at what lays below my waist
But I sensed....
Thought I saw a glimpse....
Betrayal that's plagued me all my life
Always present though from it I desperately flee
Easier to disregard than to affirm
Warning bells blaring
Managed to convince myself they were bells of the alter
But how can I blame them
When I surrender myself for slaughter
Melting into the arms of a dangerous stranger
Not heeding the voice of my father hopelessly screaming "WAIT"
I lunge into the sea of possibilities
Only to end up carried by currents to the sea of broken pieces
Shards of me destroyed
Truth is my pain is self inflicted
Never has my father not warned before the storm
Force myself to look in the mirror
Truth is..I always knew the truth
It was much more comfortable to live the lie
Truth is
I can blame them for breaking my heart
I can scream loudly and tell of how much I gave
My loyalty, my heart, my love....
Everything my father instilled in me
Truth is
I bare responsibility for the tears I cry
I stand ashamed and disheartened at my truth revealed
Apr 4, 2011
Apr 4, 2011 at 8:57 AM UTC
The cab moved quietly
Beneath the street lamps
Pleather seats: torn, faded
There we sat, silent- content.
The driver, a portly man, hacked
Struggling, his breathing deepened
Panting, gasping to regain regularity
Quickly, his breath filled the
Confined, litter-shrouded,
Van with the stench of
Cheap cigar smoke
We arrived at her home
The driver approached slowly
Carefully avoiding the icy snow
Banked earlier by the cities plows
Sliding the van door open I step out
Still holding her hand, the night air
Enters my lungs, sobering me
Just for that brief instant
Hastily, she leans in
Without hesitation, I meet her
Ambitious advance, reciprocating
The kiss is brief; I’m no longer cold
Her lips are warm and soft against mine
Retreating, she smiles. I gently brush her hair
Behind her ear unveiling a dark brown eye
My glazed, drunk, stare meet hers
Her grin, now beginning to fade
She looks down in confusion
I sense the cab driver behind me
Growing impatient he lights a cigar
Before turning away she whispers night
Her hand lets go of mine; our fingers part
Complacent, tomorrow she will return to him
Revisiting that feigned, simulated, infatuation
The kind they falsely advertised as ‘love’
Standing alone, I’m cold once more
Keying in, she doesn’t look back
Reaching into my pocket
Scrounging for what cash is left
To the cab, I surrender my last five dollars
This pays just enough to get me where I stand
Dissatisfied with his tip, the driver departs cursing
Unsure what to make of the evening, I begin my walk
Now, not so sobering, the night air dries my throat
The chilled breeze that once blushed her cheeks
Now stings my nose, ears, and finger tips
Alone, I continue west- home
Cold, I have miles ahead
Spirit torn in twain
I walk them.
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 10:03 PM UTC
Can you turn it down?
Loves on turbo, hearts destruction,
Willing partner needs eruption.
Love is rivers, I might drown.
Can you turn it up?
Souls construction isn't flowing,
Welcome warmth is ever knowing.
Love is wine and you're the cup.
Can you still be more?
Satisfaction guaranteed,
Whether chained or will be freed.
Love is knocking at the door.
Can you have it all?
Handled well but simulated,
Diamond eyes were stimulated.
Love, so handsome, shall it fall.
Can you die tonight?
Left in bliss, and still tuxedoed,
Warm expansions, then I'm vetoed.
Love, or is it loveless flight.
Dec 29, 2011
Dec 29, 2011 at 5:03 PM UTC
Life is an automatic process
It goes on automatically
I live in a simulated world
Changing times and changing faces
Changing dates and changing places
It's all the same to me
The emptiness remains the same
There is a woman
Who I love
In an ideal world
We would be together
Alas
She married a strong powerful man
An alpha male
A Jujitsu expert
With great ****** stamina
When he thrusts into her
I moan in my bed
The pathetic cries of the cuckold
He is ******* the woman of my dreams
Filling her with his seed
Well, It is not an ideal world
Things often do not go as planned
And when I am able
To become aroused enough
I am learning to love the taste
Of my own cream
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 12:11 PM UTC
fifty years later
you girls wear their old dresses
over sky
blue leggings
lace
and fabric that smells
of lost time
you found them
in stores
with high ceilings
and a sloppily simulated
rustic vibe
you love your
waists tastefully
cinched
and collar bones
concealed
you twirl before
the full length
mirrors and
wish oh how
you wish
you could
have been born
then instead of now
everything
was so much classier!
the women
were a different
kind of beautiful
women
who smoked
in their bathtubs
cardboard hairdos
unraveling
women
elbow deep in
baking
soda and dishsoap
soft secretive
smiles overtaking
their
faces
as they rattled
through the
medicine
cabinet
for a snack
(twice a day)
pregnant again
for
the fourth
time
yet
thin as a rail
somehow
ghosts
in their own
skin
silent but
deadly
crying manically
because of
the smoke
in their eyes
choking gently
on the powder
all over their tight
lovely complexions
dinner ready
at six
sharp as a rusty nail
fantasizing
about what it would be like
to fall in love
with another woman
scuffing their knees
and showing the raw
skin off to all
the young men
with sunlight left over
from childhood still
swimming in their
eyes
or walking home
in the rain
without an umbrella
and having that be ok
slapping their
own faces
at such trecherous
thoughts
obsessing
over how
their mothers did
it with
so much **** grace...
but yes
girls
their clothes
were simply
divine
Feb 2, 2010
Feb 2, 2010 at 11:33 AM UTC
Explosions & gunshots
(Simulated)
says an urgent text
from Notify NYC
on my cell,
well recv'd
reported to be
in Central Park,
my heart now skipping beats,
not comprehending the detensing
the declensing cleansing of...
s i m u l a t i o n
thinking only
my park, my park,
my country, my country,
a ****** battlefield!
a second glance, it's just
a heads up to keep my
head down,
from my bud, my boy,
Free *****
having a bit of fun
with us Ameddicans
Shakespeare in the Park presents:
Troilus and Cressida
which contains the use of smoke, haze,
cigarettes,
explosions, loud sounds,
blank gunshots & strobe effects.
***cigarettes? cigarettes? ***
there is no smoking in the park,
not even for poets and
Playrights of renown,
no exceptions made
in this hard-nosed town
and that ladies and gents
is how
one distinguishes a
genuine New Yorkah
neither smoke nor haze,
explosions and gunshots,
an apple-cheeked citizenry faze
these hardy city folk,
from their pursuit of
the golden yolk,
the reward of the
dog-eat-dog yoke,
worn in the pursuit of
Life, Happiness & Liberte
don't even thinking about
smoking in our park,
or near my face,
then the loud noises
may be more than merely
stimulating
than blankly,
s i m u l a t i n g....
Jul 19, 2016
Jul 19, 2016 at 2:07 PM UTC
Pure, collapsible, indisputable.
Oozing inside with purpose.
Vicious slime invades the orifice.
****** and pulsing;
unfiltered specks;
all untarnished space.
This sprawl leaves it's mark;
stains like blood
or coffee as it drips;
collected into vats;
like flies in the ointment.
The nature of the beast moves quickly:
video games or junk food.
On our eyes simulated,
stimulated, embossed on our souls.
Spoon fed groomed inspiration
pumps direct.
Into sacks of meat
vacant gunk sloshes.
Glommed onto cells,
demanding position.
Consumes virtual reality,
the avatars,
our status,
updated or not.
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 5:24 AM UTC
*Fairytale Evolutions,
Terminating Digital Mutations,
Simulated Sensations,
Transcendent Revolutions,
Hybrid Generations,
Altering Stagnant Amplifications,
Shape Shifting Constellations,
Sterilizing Implications,
Eliciting Blissful Animations,
Decoding Kaleidoscopic Flirtations,
Fabricating Holographic Dimensions,
Reflecting Labyrinth Ramifications,
Transgressional Diversifications,
Empathetic Extortion,
Serene Distortion,
Subversive Contortion,
Forging Conceptual Inoculations
Violating Illusionary Variations,
Incarnating Prototype Deviations,
Radiating Subtle Speculations,
Catalyzing Crystallized Civilizations.
-01:09AM*
Feb 28, 2017
Feb 28, 2017 at 2:57 PM UTC
[claw machine in operation]
{ toys equal non zero;
semicolon acceptance speech;
()==simulated}
[colours =(green, blue, 13425, white)]
analogtodigital=engaged
digital to analog= address register input feed running at half speed]
querytoproblemsource=sent
response.ok(bandwidthfinite)
server.send=in.packets
request pending approval//////
end(0)
Jan 19, 2014
Jan 19, 2014 at 2:43 PM UTC
Some say we live in a computer simulation.
A simulation run by others further along.
Our sentients is just as real as theirs.
“I think therefore I am.”
If this is true, what do we do?
Some interesting possibilities could be true.
Could we live simulated lives ad infinitum?
If simulated here could we be simulated anywhere?
Could this be a game and we’re judged by results?
Could there be consequence for how we behave?
Could Heaven and Hell actually be real?
Might want to plan accordingly.
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 2:01 PM UTC