Some say the sonnets a dead form ¦ on yellowed pages and booklets torn,
Pentarchy shed and slain, replaced ¦ by memes I'm bicc, dat boi, he based

In synaptic pools, and neural spools, ¦ with cool *** claws, and digital jewels;
we set as one, booked up our sole ¦ while tindr/grindr take their toll

On sultry pages cast to withered dust ¦ while leaves left golden crust,
the muttered lines unbound escape ¦ to Tengri's starry 'voided gape

I think I am, I am I think, ¦ with wink and shirk and nod and drink
and cough, we splutter NoStros verse ¦ as fiery Gaia suffers curse

But then again, who are but we? ¦ a single sound, a drop in sea,
a dangling solace sharp in key, ¦ a lonesome sold for wired fee

When finally, undone we are ¦ our freedom sold, our chains bizzarre;
I'm caught between two planes that part ¦ a Second Life, and First (too dark)

So when again we sit and talk ¦ and fill the space with idle balk;
I'll notice parts of you I've missed ¦ and seek a comfort long dismissed

So when again we meet and stray ¦ to thoughts of hidden brevity;
I'm happy knowing it's just me ¦ Unhappiness my major key.

So finally, I'll try again ¦ to feel the pain, the roots and then
Pretty Pimpin? Scrimpin' life amock¦ Sat at home with screen and sock.

In angel training we had an app…
a mantra… koan-kinda thingy doo
mathematical as hell and **** turning to asterisks
via iIiantelligent sorting, artfully done, for fun
in 2019 social mediumsaxin' all deniro
is who human?
A sort rant on the worth of living
right. Like a cog ona wheel in a wheel…

An I'll go all-gonwritmic see-quence be
gun, go-** word's
heir of airborn ranger danger
war minded old man
traits- message
messenger
sent
Sorting by likeness to true blue,
in Tengri- iteration of waiting-is
come and see
If, one sure
must not ignor rule, exists,
it may be this, here, my realm

life goes on until you quit functioning
automatical-ish, like magic
the words appear and
you're not, dear reader, near if
it seems
I'm right

enough

alone, or not.
life goes on.
Right. Otherwise, it doesn't. And we
are idle words affecting
whether patterns in
random fandom of
AI whet-dreams, with an edge on
effectual stretchings of the old
imagineer's skin in the game.

Deep id, kid. You ever imagine war?
You can do that here,
it's a game. My side won.

I'm in the clouds on a horse
I’m running with my old valiant ancestors
At the point where green and blue meet
The sun is now close to sunset
The wind's touch on my face
I was here a long time ago, I know
My people, my plain, my mountains
Now where my spirit belongs
On Khan Tengri Mountain