Archives for posts with tag: poetry

‘To new beginnings’, mutters the wormlord as he burrows backwards
Janus, more generously the God of gateways,
squeezes his rear against the walls of the tunnel
Excreted slime eases the laboured movements

He carves new grooves into the tunnel face
Makes new tunnels that cut fresh paths into time
Reaches back to forge new histories for himself

‘In this one I’ll not be a worm’
Janus endures his sufferances twice for every failure
once forward and then back
before he carves again new grooves

Write, re-write, re-write, write
Even Janus, the God of gateways,
cannot change his fate as a worm.

Artwork of Leto II, the God Emperor from Frank Herbert's scifi novel series Dune. Art created by Berkan Ozkan.
Art by BerkanOzkan
The acrylic painting "Joy" by Canadian artist Stella Jurgen
‘Joy’ by Stella Jurgen (acrylic painting)

When you have your life in its entirety before you,
your complete body of work – how to go about experiencing it?
Pre-existence tech is such a trip these days

Previous versions were only available for linear consumption,
moving from birth to death like a worm – sequential existence, how outdated a concept
With v2.0 our aim was to achieve something less passive

We call it the sampler model:
drop in to key moments for a variety of appetisers
before selecting how to program the remainder as the main meal

Some clear their veggies first, others their carbs
Some like their foods segregated – why not the same choice with the seconds of your life?
Rip through the pain first if you so wish
or alternate pain and joy to better tolerate the bad times

v2.0: How you choose to feast on your life is finally up to you

Wave Packet, by Steve Breaux and Kathy Reed

For years I barely spoke except a little at supper
and then I would lock myself away in the cellar
my human instincts blinkered, devolved
more grunts than grammar

So it was in grief that I built my instrument
the smallest gateway no larger than a florin
a desperate soul’s ingenious plea
it pierced the universe into God’s kaleidoscope

And through the eyepiece I watched fractal, sharded realities
paths not taken and events that never occurred
but those fancies aside, I saw you again
I saw the sum of existence
and in its maths was your superposition

What a monster I am
to quantify my daughter as some probabilistic
I rank my personal efforts with you against the averages
and saw that my failures were my own and only my own

I just wanted a way to see you happy again

a butterfly camouflaged against the bark of a tree

You spear throwers think yourselves apex
speak yourselves deep into this delusion
as though you came to the fire and not it to you

all the creatures of the kingdom play chase
so tell me why man prefers to hide than seek
except that in your heart of hearts you recognise
you are still the prey and something hides in the brush

The prison is all but complete, hell manifest
and the meat bicker over who holds the keys
and who paints the cells

A strange feeling that men dare forget our place
in this world, yet we grow numb and weary,
a surprise to feel at all

we who imbue land with life
who carried your kind to term
now relegated to whisper, fated to fade
and you who took so much for so little
savage the earth and understand not gratitude

we will have no more of it
we become alien and wild to you
and when the great singing stops and the soils turn white
the debt will be settled

New England woodlands hostile come nightfall
dark forests untamed by church presence
where hard eyes watch white men, Christian uninitiates
with bloodthirsty eagerness for transgressions

Photo screenshot from The Witch: A New England Folktale (2015), directed by Robert Eggers

The great library grows wilder in its growing
and each day a new wing is built 
larger than everything previous combined

to house the exponential production in books
books, books, books
and what’s contained within them increasingly esoteric or tangential

Irrelevant feelings and idle thoughts documented on paper
in time no doubt incoherent gibberish will step over the shrinking bar
all of it is knowledge, for sure, but is all knowledge sacred or worth saving?
much of it underbrush to the towering trees of canonised wisdom

The lone librarian makes judicious use of her opaque filing system
sifts the endless tomes into hierarchies of pertinence
if it tends to infinity, what good is the library without her?
just an endless labyrinth of noise 
that swallows signal

Perhaps we ought to burn it all down
and start over whilst we still can
before the definitions blur any further
and the wildfires become uncontrollable

Brazil’s National Library, Rio de Janeiro (Photo credit: CHRISTOPHE SIMON/AFP/Getty Images)

The past must surely accrue, logically speaking:
There’s more of it today than there was yesterday
and even more tomorrow than was today
Yet I dont feel heavier with the weight of new memories

Where does it all go?
An hourglass ever filling from above
And with no clear past, where can I go?
I am the sole point on a graph

I am of no name:
Names are labels and labels require identifiable properties
and properties require distinct patterns of behaviour
and patterns require more points on the graph

As far as I know
I simply am

What’s in a name? Understand in the old ways it was everything
All Creation was named by the Forefather on divine command
and you demean such a thing to a trivial handle?
How many creatures of lore fell foul of degenerate men
because they gave away their true name?

No! A name – a true name – is to know the naked essence of a thing
beyond linguistics and words and gutturals
to manipulate its spirit
command it if desired, kill it if so willed

Such sacred bonds of trust were not often given willingly, you understand

There are still shades of this old knowledge in our group conscience
Nicknames and middle names and usernames
and other such obscurances

And yet others – those rootless ones lacking connection no doubt –
dig deeper for truer naming conventions
The ACGTs of it all, or crisscrossing genealogies
dating back to the Forefather

Pray for them that they never find their own true name
as doubtless they would reveal it to all
and find themselves rendered back to golem-like putty
at the hands of those who still abuse such incantations

They cry for more
even as they hang by their throats
skewered on thorns

Take care; try pull one free and hear its soul shriek
Watch it nip blood from your fingers and
reentangle itself in the barbs of the tree

How foolish of you to think
it was ever not free

A million by a million such wretched creatures
reduced to fuel
all cry for more

But how to prolong their suffering?
How to slowbleed such existences any further?
And so began our important work to digitise the Great Tree
A world-devouring replica into which the creatures could now spawn and reproduce

A new creature, in truth part-wretch and part-tree
iterated screen slave, increasingly cyborg
What pathetic simulacra of life

%d bloggers like this: