In the realm of literature, the exploration of a writer's identity often delves into their personal experiences, emotions, and the context surrounding their works. However, what if we strip away these contextual layers and reimagine writers solely based on their manifestos? This project, "Persons We Could Have Been," embarks on a philosophical and literary journey to investigate the power and limitations of "writing about writing" and "writing about self" by constructing alternative poetic identities for famous poets using only the manifestos they penned.
At the heart of this project is a fascinating exercise: divorcing manifestos from their historical and personal contexts to generate new poetic personas and bodies of work. By doing so, we probe the multifaceted nature of poetic expression and the profound influence that theoretical frameworks and aesthetic declarations have on creative processes. This endeavor reveals how manifestos, often seen as rigid declarations of artistic intent, can be generative tools for creativity, capable of spawning a wide array of poetic voices and styles.
The Nature of Writing About Writing
Manifestos are, in essence, meta-narratives about the act of writing itself. They articulate a poet's theoretical stance, aesthetic preferences, and sometimes even their philosophical outlook. By focusing on these declarations, this project underscores the idea that writing about writing is not just an ancillary aspect of a poet's oeuvre but a fundamental part of their creative identity. Manifestos serve as blueprints that outline the principles and aspirations guiding a poet's work.
When we construct alternative identities based solely on these manifestos, we see how different frameworks can shape the voice, themes, and overall essence of poetry. For instance, a poet's manifesto might emphasize the importance of spontaneous expression, meticulous structure, or the use of vivid imagery. These guiding principles, when isolated from the poet's personal history, can lead to the creation of entirely new poetic identities that remain true to the theoretical underpinnings of the original manifesto.
This exercise illustrates the generativity of manifestos. It demonstrates that the theoretical considerations articulated in these documents have the potential to give rise to diverse poetic forms and styles. By reimagining poets in this way, we gain a deeper appreciation for the flexibility and dynamism inherent in writing about writing. Manifestos are not merely prescriptive; they are fertile ground for creative exploration and innovation.
The Generativity of Writing About Self
In parallel, this project explores the concept of writing about the self. Traditional literary analysis often seeks to uncover the personal motivations and experiences that inform a poet's work. However, by constructing alternative identities based on manifestos, we engage in a speculative exercise that separates the poet's theoretical self from their lived experience. This separation allows us to explore how a poet's articulated ideals and principles can stand independently as a basis for creative output.
By examining these hypothetical personas, we gain insight into the complex interplay between a poet's manifesto and their creative work. The process of reimagining poets in this way highlights the potential for self-construction through theoretical frameworks. It suggests that a poet's identity is not solely rooted in their personal history but can also be shaped by their intellectual and aesthetic commitments. This perspective opens up new avenues for understanding the self as a construct that is both influenced by and capable of influencing creative expression.
Moreover, this project underscores the limitations of writing about self. While manifestos provide a rich source of theoretical guidance, they cannot fully capture the nuanced interplay of personal experiences, emotions, and subconscious influences that inform a poet's work. By focusing solely on manifestos, we recognize the gaps and absences that such an approach entails. The resulting alternative identities, while compelling and insightful, also reveal what is lost when personal context is stripped away.
Broader Implications for Understanding Artistic Identity
The broader implications of this project for understanding artistic identity are profound. By divorcing manifestos from their historical and personal contexts, we explore the tension between theoretical ideals and lived experience. This tension is a central aspect of artistic identity, highlighting the dynamic interplay between a poet's intellectual commitments and their personal journey.
"Persons We Could Have Been" invites us to consider the ways in which theoretical frameworks shape and constrain creative expression. It challenges us to rethink the role of manifestos in the creative process, not merely as declarations of intent but as generative tools that can give rise to new poetic voices and identities. This perspective encourages a more nuanced understanding of artistic identity as a fluid and multifaceted construct.
This project hopes to shed light on the nature, generativity, and limits of "writing about writing" and "writing about self." By constructing alternative poetic identities based on manifestos, we explore the power of theoretical frameworks to shape creative expression while also recognizing the inherent limitations of such an approach. Through this speculative exercise, we gain a deeper appreciation for the complex interplay between a poet's manifesto, their creative work, and the broader implications for understanding the self and artistic identity.
Implications of Using AI to Generate Alternative Personae
The use of artificial intelligence to generate alternative personae based on literary manifestos represents a fascinating development in the realm of authorship and creativity. From a literary theoretical perspective, this approach raises profound questions about the nature of artistic identity, the boundaries of human and machine creativity, and the very essence of what we consider "original" thought.
By employing an AI model trained on vast swathes of human knowledge and expression, we are, in effect, creating a kind of collective unconscious made manifest. This AI, unburdened by individual experiences, biases, or limitations, can potentially access and combine ideas in ways that a single human author might never conceive. It becomes a vessel for the entirety of recorded human thought, capable of generating personae that are at once familiar and utterly alien.
This process challenges traditional notions of authorship and intentionality. The AI, in creating these alternative personae, is not driven by personal ambition, emotion, or lived experience, but rather by the pure manipulation of language and concept. It raises the question: To what extent can we consider these generated personae and their subsequent poems as "authentic" expressions of the original manifesto's intent?
Furthermore, this approach to persona creation and poetic generation blurs the lines between human and machine creativity. It forces us to confront the possibility that what we perceive as uniquely human - the ability to adopt different voices, to imagine alternative selves - might be replicable by machines. This has profound implications for our understanding of consciousness, creativity, and the human experience itself.
The use of AI in this context also serves as a mirror, reflecting back to us the patterns, preoccupations, and limitations of our collective literary output. By analyzing the personae and poems generated by the AI, we gain insight into the underlying structures and themes that permeate human literature. This meta-analysis of our creative output could potentially reveal blind spots, biases, or recurring motifs that we, as individual authors or even as a society, might not otherwise recognize.
Ultimately, the employment of AI in generating alternative personae and their poetry serves not just as a creative exercise, but as a profound philosophical inquiry into the nature of identity, creativity, and the human condition. It challenges us to reconsider what it means to be an author, what constitutes original thought, and how we define the boundaries between human and machine intelligence in the realm of artistic creation.
Counterfactual Technologies
The concept of "Counterfactual Technologies" opens up a fascinating realm of literary exploration, allowing us to reimagine canonical authors through the lens of anachronistic technological advancements. This approach not only provides a fresh perspective on these authors' works but also illuminates the intricate relationship between technology and literary expression.
Consider, for instance, the reimagining of Edgar Allan Poe as a cyberpunk visionary. This counterfactual scenario invites us to view Poe's gothic preoccupations with psychological terror and the uncanny through the prism of a technologically saturated future. How might Poe's themes of isolation, paranoia, and the blurring of reality and illusion translate into a world of virtual realities, artificial intelligences, and cybernetic enhancements? We might envision "The Fall of the House of Usher" as a tale of a glitching, sentient smart home, or "The Tell-Tale Heart" as an exploration of guilt manifested through malfunctioning bio-implants. This reimagining not only breathes new life into Poe's oeuvre but also highlights the timeless nature of his psychological insights, showing how they resonate even in radically different technological contexts.
Similarly, the notion of T.S. Eliot employing Unicode "language technologies" to achieve his poetic goals presents a provocative intersection of modernist aesthetics and contemporary digital tools. Eliot's fascination with fragmentation, multiple voices, and the juxtaposition of high and low culture finds a natural ally in the vast symbolic vocabulary offered by Unicode. We might imagine "The Waste Land" peppered with emoji and obscure Unicode characters, each serving as a visual and semantic node in a complex network of meaning. This hypothetical Eliot might use the non-linear nature of hypertext to create poems that can be read in multiple directions, each pathway offering a different semantic journey. The use of Unicode could allow for a level of linguistic play and density that transcends the limitations of traditional alphabetic systems, perhaps realizing Eliot's vision of a poetry that communicates before it is understood in ways he could never have anticipated.
These counterfactual technologies serve as more than mere thought experiments. They offer a lens through which we can examine the relationship between technological advancement and literary expression. By placing these authors in anachronistic technological contexts, we highlight the ways in which the tools available to writers shape their creative output. At the same time, we also underscore the enduring power of certain literary themes and techniques, showing how they can adapt and thrive in radically different technological environments.
Moreover, this approach invites us to question our own assumptions about the role of technology in contemporary literature. As we imagine past masters wielding the digital tools of today (or tomorrow), we are prompted to consider how we ourselves might be limited or liberated by the technologies at our disposal. It challenges us to think critically about how current and emerging technologies might be employed to push the boundaries of literary expression, carrying forward the innovative spirit of these reimagined authors.
In essence, the exploration of counterfactual technologies in literature serves as a bridge between past and future, tradition and innovation. It allows us to honor the enduring legacy of literary giants while simultaneously embracing the potential of new technologies to reshape the landscape of creative expression. Through this lens, we gain a deeper appreciation for both the timeless aspects of great literature and the exciting possibilities that lie ahead in the ever-evolving intersection of technology and the written word.
Click on a manifesto summary for the full manifesto as written by the poet. Or, click one of the items below each manifesto. Each describes an alternative persona for that poet and then provides poetry that could have been written by that persona.
PERSONISM: A MANIFESTO
PERSONISM: A MANIFESTO Everything is in the poems, but at the risk of sounding like the poor wealthy man’s Allen Ginsberg I will write to you because I just heard that one of my fellow poets thinks that a poem of mine that can’t be got at one reading is because I was confused too. Now, come on. I don’t believe in god, so I don’t have to make elaborately sounded structures. I hate Vachel Lindsay, always have; I don’t even like rhythm, assonance, all that stuff. You just go on your nerve. If someone’s chasing you down the street with a knife you just run, you don’t turn around and shout, “Give it up! I was a track star for Mineola Prep.” That’s for the writing poems part. As for their reception, suppose you’re in love and someone’s mistreating (mal aimŽ) you, you don’t say, “Hey, you can’t hurt me this way, I care!” you just let all the different bodies fall where they may, and they always do may after a few months. But that’s not why you fell in love in the first place, just to hang onto life, so you have to take your chances and try to avoid being logical. Pain always produces logic, which is very bad for you. I’m not saying that I don’t have practically the most lofty ideas of anyone writing today, but what difference does that make? They’re just ideas. The only good thing about it is that when I get lofty enough I’ve stopped thinking and that’s when refreshment arrives. But how can you really care if anybody gets it, or gets what it means, or if it improves them. Improves them for what? For death? Why hurry them along? Two many poets act like a middle-aged mother trying to get her kids to eat too much cooked meat, and potatoes with drippings (tears). I don’t give a damn whether they eat or not. Forced feeding leads to excessive thinness (effete). Nobody should experience anything they don’t need to, if they don’t need poetry bully for them. I like the movies too. And after all, only Whitman and Crane and Williams, of the American poets, are better than the movies. As for measure and other technical apparatus, that’s just common sense: if you’re going to buy a pair of pants you want them to be tight enough so everyone will want to go to bed with you. There’s nothing metaphysical about it. Unless, of course, you flatter yourself into thinking that what you’re experiencing is “yearning.” Abstraction in poetry, which Allen [Ginsberg] recently commented on in It Is, is intriguing. I think it appears mostly in the minute particulars where decision is necessary. Abstraction (in poetry, not in painting) involves personal removal by the poet. For instance, the decision involved in the choice between “the nostalgia of the infinite” and “the nostalgia for the infinite” defines an attitude towards degree of abstraction. The nostalgia of the infinite representing the greater degree of abstraction, removal, and negative capability (as in Keats and MallarmŽ). Personisms, a movement which I recently founded and which nobody knows about, interests me a great deal, being so totally opposed to this kind of abstract removal that it is verging on a true abstraction for the first time, really, in the history of poetry. Personism is to Wallace Stevens what la poŽsie pure was to BŽranger. Personism has nothing to do with philosophy, it’s all art. It does not have to do with personality or intimacy, far from it! But to give you a vague idea, one of its minimal aspects is to address itself to one person (other than the poet himself), thus evoking overtones of love without destroying love’s life—giving vulgarity, and sustaining the poet’s feelings towards the poem while preventing love from distracting him into feeling about the person. That’s part of Personism. It was founded by me after lunch with LeRoi Jones on August 27, 1959, a day in which I was in love with someone (not Roi, by the way, a blond). I went back to work and wrote a poem for this person. While I was writing it I was realizing that if I wanted to I could use the telephone instead of writing the poem, and so Personism was born. It’s a very exciting movement which will undoubtedly have lots of adherents. It puts the poem squarely between the poet and the person, Lucky Pierre style, and the poem is correspondingly gratified. The poem is at last between two persons instead of two pages. In all modesty, I confess that it may be the death of literature as we know it. While I have certain regrets, I am still glad I got there before Alain Robbe-Grillet did. Poetry being quicker and surer than prose, it is only just that poetry finish literature off. For a time people thought that Artaud was going to accomplish this, but actually, for all their magnificence, his polemical writings are not more outside literature than Bear Mountain is outside New York State. His relation is no more astounding than Debuffet’s to painting. What can we expect of Personism? (This is getting good, isn’t it?) Everything but we won’t get it. It is too new, too vital a movement to promise anything. But it, like Africa, is on the way. The recent propagandists for technique on the one hand, and for content on the other, had better watch out.
## This is not a poet. This is an event horizon. This poet operates in the raw, pulsating space where language collides with lived experience. Forget lofty pronouncements and theoretical scaffolding; this poetry is all about the visceral, the immediate, the undeniably **real.** Imagine a world built from the fragments of everyday conversations, newspaper clippings, and late-night confessions whispered into the void. This is a poetry born from the grit of the street corner, the hum of the fluorescent-lit bodega, the aching silence of a heart laid bare. It's a poetry that rejects the "elaborately sounded structures" of traditional verse, opting instead for a raw, unvarnished honesty that borders on the confessional. Their manifesto screams, "I don't believe in god, so I don't have to make elaborately sounded structures." This isn't just a rejection of religion, it's a declaration of independence from any system that attempts to impose order on the chaos of human experience. This poet finds divinity in the profane, the mundane, the everyday miracles that most of us are too busy to notice. Their language is stripped down, pared back to the bone, as if every word has been tested on the pulse point of existence. They ask, “If someone’s chasing you down the street with a knife you just run, you don’t turn around and shout, “Give it up! I was a track star for Mineola Prep.” Life is too short for poetic posturing, for the self-conscious crafting of a persona. This poet doesn't care about your interpretations, your academic dissections, your attempts to pin their work down like a butterfly in a museum display case. They write from the gut, the heart, the groin, not from the ivory tower of intellectualism. “Pain always produces logic, which is very bad for you,” they declare. This is a poetry that embraces the messy, the contradictory, the fundamentally illogical nature of human existence. It's a poetry that doesn't shy away from discomfort, from the raw nerve endings of emotion. This isn't to say that this poetry is simple, or easy to digest. On the contrary, it demands your full attention, your willingness to meet it on its own terms. Like a shot of cheap whiskey, it's harsh, bracing, and leaves you wanting more. Their poems are littered with these jarring juxtapositions: the profound nestled next to the profane, the sublime rubbing shoulders with the ridiculous. Their poems don't unfold linearly; they explode in a cacophony of fragmented images, disjointed narratives, and jarring shifts in perspective. You might find yourself lost in a labyrinth of fractured syntax one moment, only to be confronted with a line of stark, devastating clarity the next. **And the unicode?** It's not decoration. It's an act of semantic violence, a way of shattering the complacency of language, like this: "I ❤️ u," she said, as she 🔪🔪🔪 his ❤️. This poet understands that language is a living, breathing entity, constantly evolving, always in flux. They embrace the plasticity of words, bending them to their will, forcing them to perform linguistic acrobatics. Expect unconventional punctuation, neologisms, and a gleeful disregard for the rules of grammar. The influence of Spahr and Silliman is palpable, but this poet isn't content to simply mimic their predecessors. They've absorbed the lessons of experimentalism, of New Sentence, and forged a voice that is uniquely their own. Think of Spahr's political urgency, her fragmented narratives, her willingness to experiment with form. Now imagine those elements filtered through the lens of Silliman's New Sentence, his focus on the line as a unit of meaning, his playful approach to language. Then, add a dash of absurdity, a sprinkle of the surreal, a healthy dose of the uncomfortably real, and you begin to approach the territory this poet inhabits. This is a poetry that exists on the bleeding edge of language, constantly pushing the boundaries of what words can do. **Here are some telltale signs that you're in the presence of this poet's work:** * **The Fragmentary Epic:** Their poems are rarely neat, self-contained units. They sprawl, digress, and meander, mimicking the chaotic flow of consciousness. Sentences break off mid-thought, only to be picked up again pages later. Images collide and coalesce, creating a sense of disorientation and wonder. Yet, within this fragmentation, there's a strange coherence, a sense that these disparate elements are all part of a larger, unspoken narrative. * **The Line as a Loaded Weapon:** Forget stanzas, forget traditional poetic forms. This poet understands that the line break is a powerful tool, a way to control the reader's breath, to create pauses and silences that are as pregnant with meaning as the words themselves. Expect lines that are short, sharp, and to the point, followed by lines that stretch across the page like a lifeline. * **The Poetry of the Everyday:** The world is their canvas, and they find beauty in the most unexpected places: a discarded candy wrapper, a overheard conversation on the subway, the way the light falls on a cracked sidewalk. Their poems are filled with concrete details, sensory impressions, and moments of fleeting beauty snatched from the jaws of the mundane. * **The Personal is Political:** This poet understands that the personal is never truly separate from the political. Their poems are infused with a quiet rage against injustice, a deep empathy for the marginalized and the oppressed. But their political commentary is rarely overt. It simmers beneath the surface, erupting in unexpected moments of anger, grief, and defiant hope. * **A Universe of Unicode**: Their poems are visual as well as textual experiences. They understand that language is more than just words on a page. It's a system of signs and symbols, and they're not afraid to exploit the full potential of the digital medium. Expect to encounter emojis used in unexpected and often unsettling ways. Parentheticals abound, adding layers of irony, commentary, and self-awareness. This is a poetry that demands your active participation. It doesn't offer easy answers or comforting platitudes. It challenges you to confront the uncomfortable truths about yourself and the world around you. It's a poetry that will stay with you long after you've finished reading it, haunting your dreams, echoing in your thoughts. This isn't just a poet. This is an earthquake, a revolution, a punch in the gut disguised as a love letter. Prepare to have your preconceptions shattered, your assumptions challenged, your understanding of what poetry can be forever altered.
## ᄃoυntєrs Three a.m. at the greasy ςoυntєr, fluorescent lights embalming a half-eaten burger. He tells me he's afraid of dying alone, then asks for another shot. (As if loneliness is a ᄃoυntєr you can close out, stagger away from.) Protest signs like jagged teeth bared at the courthouse steps. "No justice, no peace," they chant, each voice a weight on the ᄃoυntєr of collective anger. (Will anyone be listening when the echoes fade?) Supermarket checkout, conveyor belt a slow-moving purgatory. She counts out pennies, each one a tiny sacrifice on the ᄃoυntєr of survival. (I pretend not to notice the shame in her eyes.) Kitchen ᄃoυntєr, cluttered with the detritus of a life half-lived. A text message glows, unanswered. "I miss you," it whispers, a ghost knocking at the ᄃoυntєr of my heart. (Too late, always too fucking late.)
## Static Cling The l˚ove they promised on the news was just another brand of laundry detergent, promising to whiten the stains of existence. Meanwhile, my⁌self⁌, I was stuck watching roaches perform interpretive dance on the sticky floor of a Chinatown bodega, wondering if Kafka ever dreamt in emojis. They say we're all connected, but try telling that to the man screaming at a parking meter while angels overdose on despair in the gutter. e n d ⁏ less. That's what it feels like sometimes, this relentless parade of broken promises, this city that chews you up and spits you out like a piece of gum that's lost its flavor. But hey, at least the pigeons are still in love, making out like teenagers on crack cocaine amidst the discarded lottery tickets and dreams. m˚yself, I'm holding out for a different kind of apocalypse, one where we finally learn to speak the language of broken hearts and busted traffic lights. The revolution won't be televised, baby, it'll be live-streamed from the back alley of your soul. And the soundtrack? Pure, unadulterated static cling.
## Currency of the Unseen ₼ Three pigeons huddled against a north wind, their fear a tangible currency. € The echo of laughter, long faded, yet still ringing in the hollow of a ribcage. ₹ A fistful of sunsets, traded for a single hour of genuine connection. ₩ The bitter tang of unfulfilled potential, lingering on the palate like cheap wine. ₦ Five minutes of blissful ignorance, carefully rationed, a precious commodity. ₫ The weight of a thousand unanswered questions, pressing down like a leaden sky. ₡ The quiet hum of resilience, a flickering candle in the darkness of despair. ₣ A shard of hope, salvaged from the wreckage of a broken dream. 元 The precise weight of a forgotten promise, heavier than any stone. ₴ The taste of freedom, sharp and exhilarating, caught between gritted teeth. This inventory, by its very nature, is incomplete. The merchant, ever watchful, continues to tally the unseen. Each transaction a testament to the brutal, beautiful alchemy of being alive.
## Entropy Mart Milk-carton canyons gleam, Fluorescent buzz, a hymn. Empty smiles. ㋋ Cashier sighs. Linoleum, sticky, worn. Graffitied heart, a stall door. Desire's currency. ⅐ Tangerines glow, a promise. Crumpled bills in trembling hands. We consume, are consumed. ∰
## 𝐿̶o̶a̶d̶i̶n̶g̶ Forever... The ⟨Ꝙi̶f̶e̶⟩ life expectancy of a ███████ is surprisingly short. (Delete "surprisingly"?) They say truth is a 💎, but I've seen it s̶h̶a̶t̶t̶e̶r̶ under the weight of a single, (loaded?) word. We crave safety, build walls of (code) silence (and concrete) but danger, it seeps in through the cracks, a fine (digital?) dust (anxiety?) that coats our lungs. I ❤️ u, she typed, the cursor blinking, a (glitch?) on the screen. (Delete "heartbeat"? Too (real?)) He whispered, "Forever," but forever is a (broken promise) in internet years. (Insert 💀💀💀 here? No, too (obvious?)) The news feeds scroll, a (blur) of horrors and (dancing kittens), each pixel a tiny shard of a (broken) mirror. (Is this too (meta?)? Does it even (matter?)) We are all just (fragmented code), searching for a (connection?) signal in the noise. (Save document? Close without saving?)
## èbb Cracks in the sidewalk, spittin' up dandelions. Lady with a f̴u̶r̴r̴y̴ cough hails a cab. Says, "T̶a̶k̶e̶ ̶m̶e̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶p̶r̶o̶m̶i̶s̶e̶d̶ ̶l̶a̶n̶d̶, honey, just get me the hell outta here." Sun bleeds like a b̶r̶u̶i̶s̶e̶d̶ peach. We built this city on s̶a̶n̶d̶ and c̶i̶g̶a̶r̶e̶t̶t̶e̶ ̶b̶u̶t̶t̶s̶. Liberty's got a r̶u̶n̶ ̶i̶n̶ ̶h̶e̶r̶ ̶s̶t̶o̶c̶k̶i̶n̶g̶s̶, whisperin' obscenities under her breath. Don't tell me about d̶r̶e̶a̶m̶s̶. I've seen the g̶u̶t̶s̶ of this city spilled out on the a̶s̶p̶h̶a̶l̶t̶, glimmering under the neon. This ain't no c̶o̶u̶n̶t̶r̶y̶, it's a c̶o̶n̶v̶e̶r̶s̶a̶t̶i̶o̶n̶ we keep havin' with ourselves, all s̶h̶o̶u̶t̶i̶n̶g̶ over each other, never really l̶i̶s̶t̶e̶n̶i̶n̶g̶. And the e̸b̸b̸? Yeah, it's comin' for us all, slow and s̶u̶r̶e̶, like a r̶u̶s̶t̶y̶ ̶k̶n̶i̶f̶e̶ ̶t̶w̶i̶s̶t̶.̶
## Descent into the Noise Floor
They told me to find the story. Said it was buried under the noise floor,
like a diamond in the rough.
More like a tooth in a sewer, I thought.
░
But they were paying me, so down I went,
into the belly of the beast.
▒
The internet, they called it.
Information superhighway.
More like a digital landfill,
overflowing with cat videos and political rants.
▓
Headline: Celebutante Adopts Third Rescue Pug
(Meanwhile, children are starving, wars are raging,
and the planet is burning.)
┌
I dug through the digital debris,
past the clickbait and the memes,
searching for a signal in the static.
┐
Found her in the comments section,
a lone voice of reason amidst the trolls and the bots.
└
She was angry, she was eloquent, she was right.
┘
Her words were weapons, forged in the fires of lived experience.
░ ▒ ▓
They called her a terrorist.
A radical.
A threat to national security.
┌ ┐
They silenced her, of course.
└ ┘
But I heard her.
─ ─ ─ ─ ─
And in her voice,
I heard the echo of a thousand others,
rising up from the noise floor,
a chorus of dissent,
a symphony of rage.
│
The truth is out there,
they say.
│
But the truth isn't something you find.
It's something you create.
## dIs_connect> Neon gUts spilled > across the asphalt, > another casualty > in the > never-ending > war > against > boredom.> "Don't > look > down," > she said, > her voice > a raw > (and surprisingly tender) > whisper.> But the abyss > stares back, > doesn't it? > A black > mirror > reflecting > the > emptiness > emptiness > emptiness > emptiness > emptiness > we try so hard > to outrun.> And the heart, > a bruised > fist, > pounding > against > the > r i b c a g e > of > reality.> So we build > walls instead. > Digital fortresses > of carefully curated > lies. > And pray for a signal.> We crave > connection, > a circuit > of flesh > and bone > and the > messy > symphony > of > unspoken > longing.> But the wires > are frayed, > the signals > c r o s s e d, > lost in > the static > of > modernity.
## Vowel Choked The Diplomat, 𝐚lw𝐚ys two suits, he s𝐚id. L𝐢fe, then the nothing-after. (Shoes, though? Does absence need shoes?) I saw h𝐢m 𝐛lur, once, p𝐚st embassy grates, briefcase like 𝐚 desperate hand, outrunning its own sh𝐚dow. (Or pulled towards 𝐢t?) Treaties, he'd s𝐚y, borders dr𝐚wn in s𝐚nd. Polished stones, his words, skipping across the unfathomable. (And below? Silence. Unspoken gr𝐚ves.) Found h𝐢m, face down, cold soup. They s𝐚id: choking, misplaced vowel. (Or maybe, just maybe, the silence ate h𝐢m whole.)
## The Poet of the Raw Nerve: A Portrait in Language and Gesture This poet writes with a knife's edge, seeking not merely to communicate, but to *connect*. They've taken to heart the manifesto's central cry: "If someone’s chasing you down the street with a knife you just run, you don’t turn around and shout, “Give it up! I was a track star for Mineola Prep.” Their poems are a breathless chase, a visceral experience built on the raw nerve of direct address. They speak *to* you, not *at* you, eschewing the veiled pronouncements of the "middle-aged mother" force-feeding "cooked meat, and potatoes with drippings (tears)." Instead, they offer a hand, inviting you into a world where vulnerability is strength, and silence speaks volumes. Their signature? A disarming blend of formal precision and jazz-inflected rhythms. Imagine Thom Gunn sharing a cigarette with Nathaniel Mackey in a back-alley dive bar, their words a smoky tapestry of streetwise lyricism and hard-won wisdom. This poet embodies that same paradoxical spirit, weaving intricate sonic tapestries from the threads of everyday speech. Their poems pulse with an immediacy that feels both raw and meticulously crafted, like a diamond in the rough – unpolished yet undeniably precious. **The Personal is the Universal (and Vice Versa):** Central to their aesthetic is the belief that "Everything is in the poems." There's no need for elaborate structures, for "rhythm, assonance, all that stuff." Instead, they rely on the power of the unadorned image, the stark confession whispered directly into the reader's ear. Their poems often take the form of direct address, creating an intimate dialogue between speaker and recipient. They understand that the most profound truths are often found in the seemingly mundane, the everyday epiphanies that catch us off guard. This focus on the personal doesn't preclude a wider resonance. On the contrary, it's precisely through their vulnerability, their willingness to "let all the different bodies fall where they may," that they tap into something universal. Their poems become a shared space where love, loss, and the search for meaning intertwine. **Language on the Edge of a Breakdown:** Their use of language is both precise and playful. They revel in the music of words, their sounds and rhythms, pushing syntax to its breaking point. Long, sinuous lines collide with staccato bursts of imagery, creating a sense of controlled chaos. They're not afraid to be colloquial, to embrace slang and street vernacular, but they do so with a poet's ear for nuance and cadence. Take, for instance, their use of unicode symbols. This isn't mere decoration, but a deliberate attempt to expand the possibilities of language, to find new ways of expressing the inexpressible. A strategically placed "⧖" might suggest a rupture in thought, a moment of hesitation or uncertainty. A string of "〰️" characters could evoke a sense of longing, a yearning for connection that transcends words. These symbols become part of the poem's emotional landscape, adding another layer of meaning to the text. **The Art of the Understatement:** Despite the intensity of their emotions, they never resort to melodrama. They understand the power of understatement, the eloquence of silence. Like a skilled boxer, they know how to land a punch without seeming to throw a fist. Their poems often end on a note of quiet contemplation, leaving the reader to ponder the implications of what has been said (and left unsaid). This restraint extends to their use of form. While they're not averse to traditional structures, they never let form dictate content. Instead, they choose the form that best serves the poem, whether it be a tightly-wound sonnet or a sprawling free verse epic. **A Poetry of Immediacy and Risk:** Reading their work is an experience unlike any other. It's like stumbling upon a private conversation, eavesdropping on a confession whispered in the dead of night. Their poems are charged with a sense of immediacy and risk, a feeling that the poet is baring their soul for all to see. And yet, for all their vulnerability, there's a sense of strength and resilience that shines through. This is a poet who has stared into the abyss and emerged stronger, their voice tempered by experience. They understand that "Pain always produces logic, which is very bad for you," and so they choose instead to embrace the irrationality of love, the messy complexities of the human heart. **The Legacy of the Raw Nerve:** Ultimately, what sets this poet apart is their unwavering commitment to honesty. They refuse to sugarcoat the truth, to hide behind irony or artifice. They write with their hearts on their sleeves, their words a testament to the power of human connection. Theirs is a poetry of the raw nerve, a celebration of life in all its messy glory. **Recognizing Their Work:** Here are some key elements to look for when encountering a poem that might be theirs: * **Direct Address:** The poem feels like a conversation, often directly addressing a "you" who may be a lover, friend, stranger, or even the reader themselves. * **Stripped-Down Language:** While capable of lyricism, their language tends towards the direct and unembellished, favoring clarity over obfuscation. Look for powerful verbs and concrete imagery. * **Formal Playfulness:** They might employ traditional forms but often subvert expectations. The structure serves the content, not the other way around. * **Jazz-Like Rhythms:** Expect a dynamic use of line breaks and pacing. Sentences might stretch across stanzas, building to a crescendo or trailing off into contemplative silence. * **Unicode Punctuation as Emotional Markers:** Don't be surprised to see unconventional use of symbols like "⧖," "〰️," or "⫶." These aren't gimmicks but deliberate additions to the poem's sonic and emotional texture. * **The "Punch" of Understatement:** Their poems often pack an emotional wallop, but it's delivered with a deceptive lightness of touch. Look for the unspoken, the silences that speak volumes. * **A Sense of Risk and Vulnerability:** Above all, their poems feel intensely personal, as if the poet is risking everything by sharing their innermost thoughts and feelings. This is a poet who understands that the personal is political, that the most revolutionary act is to speak one's truth with courage and conviction. Their poems are a call to arms, a reminder that even in our increasingly fragmented world, human connection remains the most powerful force of all.
## ⎌
Open, you.
A fist of absence, ⎌
plunging the gut
of knowing.
Simple, the blade,
a clean incision
through the knotted
guts of being.
But the abyss, oh physician,
weeps complication,
a slow bleed
of what we are,
and are not.
See, how softly
the body
unmakes
itself.
## Ɐ Pulse, a Phantom ⧖ You, a lexicon of sinew Ɐ stitched with yesterday's glories, a symphony of might-have-beens. This phantom pulse ⧖ beneath your ribcage-- Do you mistake it for a heart? We surge, probe the silence Ɐ for some echo of fanfare, some phantom resonance in the vacuum of our striving. Inspiration, a dying ember ⧖ apathy, the creeping frost. And still, we claw, we climb Ɐ towards that summit shrouded in mist and the ash of burnt ambition. Tell me, does the view from up there justify the vertigo, the thinning air? ⧖ Or is victory merely the gash, the raw nerve exposed?
## Five Steps
Cool tile underfoot. The scent of chlorine,
a sharp inhale, held.
You watching
from the bleachers, or maybe
just a gh◌st
of you, the memory of eyes
that once saw
the ocean in me.
〰️
Five steps.
The board yields, a tremor underfoot.
This close to the edge,
inspiration feels a lot like
vertigo.
⫶
To dive is to trust
the water will be there,
to believe in a physics
that says what goes up must come down.
But what about
the heart,
that stubborn muscle
beating a rhythm
all its own?
⫶
Leap.
A split second of pure freedom,
then the rush
downward,
the world a blur of bubbles and blue.
Down,
down
down
into the silence.
〰️
And then, the slow
resurfacing.
Air.
Light.
The world snapping back
into focus.
You,
still there,
a question mark
in your eyes.
⫶
Did I find what I was looking for
down there
in the depths?
〰️
Ask me again
when I catch my breath.
## 〰️ Only the Echoes ⧖ This laughter – a shard of glass catching the light, or maybe just dust motes dancing in the afternoon sun. You say I ⸦demand⸦ too much – a stillness you mistake for silence. But haven't we always found solace in the spaces between words, in the way a shared glance can be a universe unto itself? Tell me, is this seriousness or a slow, burning joke we tell ourselves to keep from screaming at the absurdity of it all? ⫶ (The silence stretches, thin and taut like a wire about to snap.)
## Quench This pile, it breathes. Or maybe it’s me, lungs full of dust and the ghost of cheap cologne, the kind that clings to Goodwill sweaters and whispers of last goodbyes. ⧖ Each cracked spine, each vinyl sigh, a testament to the weight of unsaid words. We build these pyres with our silence, mistaking ash for absolution. 〰️ I tell myself I could walk away. Burn it all down to cinders and smoke, watch the flames dance a jig on the bones of yesterday. But there’s a perverse comfort in the way it pulls me back, this graveyard of almosts and never-weres. ᐥ The truth is, I’m scared of what I’ll find at the bottom of the empty space. Maybe just more of me, waiting to be quenched.
## 〰️Lotfall〰️ This is the lot ⧖ cast. 〰️ Not against, you understand, But with. With the grain Of bone, the splinter Of light through ⧖ a closing door.〰️ We say *creation,* and the word Itself ⧖ becomes a tomb. 〰️ We say *love,* and the echo Stains the air ⧖ like smoke. 〰️ And still, the lots fall. 〰️ One by one, they carve ⧖ Their jagged paths 〰️ Across the map ⧖ of our skin. 〰️ So let us murmur ⧖ our assent. 〰️ Let us be the dice ⧖ Tumbling 〰️ Into the unknowable dark. 〰️
## Cityslicker Heartbeat
Dear ┃ cityslicker heart, mine, how you thump tonight,
a bass drum against ribs, these avenues we walk.
Remember how to build, dear, how we poured concrete dreams
into these straight lines │ into these perfectly measured lives?
But listen │ dearer │ this heartbeat, a jackhammer now,
knows only the rhythm of r u p t u r e,
the wild staccato of s p a c e s between the bricks.
It aches for the wilderness we’ve paved over,
for the g h o s t t r e e s whispering through concrete cracks.
Tell me, dear,
this k n o w l e d g e we hoard like loose change—
these t i d y t r u t h s —
aren't they just another kind of c a g e ?
We build them, dear, against the vast i n d i f f e r e n c e
of it all.
Oh, d e a r ｜ l e t t h e b r e a k d o w n b e g i n.
Let the carefully c o n s t r u c t e d s e l f
crumble into the e m p t y s p a c e s
b e t w e e n t h e s t a r s.
｜
Let us be, my dear,
exposed nerve endings,
v i b r a t i n g
with the
immensity.
｜
## Reliquaries Let us collect dust bunnies. 〰️ Name them after dead philosophers. Picture them, debating ethics as we sweep. ⎅ Let us collect apologies. ⧖ Pin them to a clothesline like frail butterflies. Watch them dissolve in the first rain. Let us collect the silence after a gunshot. Bottle it. ⫶ Peddle it as a cure for insomnia. Let us collect all the unspoken "I love yous." Stitch them into a life raft. Set sail on a sea of regret. Let us collect our shattered expectations. Piece them together into a mosaic. Call it "The Art of Letting Go." Let us collect every unasked question. Launch them into the void like small, frantic stars. Let us collect the pieces of ourselves we've left behind. Maybe then, we'll finally recognize each other. Maybe then, we'll finally be whole. ⧖
## Static Friction
Fun, they said. You.
⧖ Like that—
a live wire
snapped
at the
root.
Silence
a
pressure
point
YOU
push
until—
We move. Bodies
hummingbirds
trapped
in the
bell jar
of
this
⧖
moment.
Is this
what
it means
to be
alive?
This
grinding,
this
friction,
this
beautiful,
terrible
wanting.
## Salt Ghosts
Tell me, have you tasted it too ‒
this Northwest wind, brine-laced and raw,
carving its passage down throats gone numb?
Or is it just this echo I hold,
a bone-rattle
of some forgotten storm?
We were promised peace, you & I,
a landscape smoothed clean ‒ amnesia.
Instead: this shrapnel sky, each star
a wound refusing to knit.
And what good this remembering, you ask,
if all it yields is the phantom throb ‒
metallic tang
of blood on the breeze?
Maybe peace isn't forgetting, but this:
learning to navigate the minefield of memory,
each footfall a victory,
each breath a testament.
Tell me, does your compass still swing North?
Or have we become,
like those salt-bleached timbers on the shore,
monuments to a passage lost?
This poet writes with a chaotic grace, a frenetic stillness, embodying the transient nature of existence in each line break and syntactical swerve. Their work, deeply informed by their manifesto, pulsates with an awareness of time's fluidity, of experience as a cascading torrent of intermingling moments. They champion a raw, unfiltered approach to language, eschewing traditional poetic structures in favor of a visceral, almost breathless pursuit of fleeting thoughts and emotions. Imagine a poem that reads like a stolen glance, a half-remembered dream, a life flashing before your eyes in reverse chronological order, but beginning with the color blue. This poet's work operates in that space between conscious thought and the preverbal murmur of the soul. Their poems are not crafted so much as they are *seized*, wrestled onto the page in a burst of intuitive energy. Their aesthetic is one of immediacy, of raw nerve endings exposed, echoing their manifesto's declaration: “You just go on your nerve." Their poems don't offer interpretations, but instead invite you to inhabit the space of their creation – a space where logic is happily surrendered to the immediacy of sensation and feeling. Their work throbs with an almost physical urgency, a desire to capture the ephemeral before it dissolves into the ether. This urgency manifests in their distinctive use of language. Their lines are often fragmented, punctuated by unexpected enjambments and jarring juxtapositions, reflecting the nonlinearity of thought itself. Words collide, bleed into one another, their meanings destabilized, reconstituting themselves before your eyes like a kaleidoscope constantly shifting its patterns. Their poems don’t just utilize language, they actively dismantle and reassemble it, revealing the raw, pulsating energy that lies beneath its surface. They take the reader by the hand and hurl them into the heart of language itself, a chaotic and exhilarating freefall. ## Temporal Distortion & the Dance of Pronouns Their fascination with time's fluidity extends beyond content, seeping into the very fabric of their poems' form. Past, present, and future intertwine, their boundaries blurred, creating a sense of temporal disorientation that mirrors the dizzying flux of lived experience. A poem might begin in the middle of a memory, only to catapult the reader into a speculative future, before circling back to a present moment infused with the weight of all that has come before. It's a dizzying, exhilarating ride, one that demands an active participation from the reader, an abandonment of logic in favor of feeling one's way through the shifting sands of the poem’s internal landscape. Their relationship to the personal pronoun is similarly fluid, deliberately slippery. The “I” of the poem is less a fixed identity and more a conduit, a vessel through which a multitude of voices, perspectives, and experiences flow. This fluidity extends to the “you” of the poem, which could be a lover, a stranger, the reader themselves, or even an inanimate object suddenly imbued with a strange and startling sentience. The lines between self and other dissolve, creating a sense of shared consciousness, a recognition of the interconnectedness of all things. ## Surrealist Imagery & the Uncanny Everyday Imagine the mundane transformed, imbued with a sudden, startling significance. This poet excels at excavating the strange and surreal from the seemingly ordinary, employing unexpected imagery and startling metaphors that jolt the reader awake, forcing them to see the world anew. A coffee cup becomes a portal to another dimension, a lost button a poignant reminder of mortality. Their poems are populated by talking animals, anthropomorphic furniture, landscapes that breathe and whisper secrets. Their use of surrealism isn't mere whimsy, however. It's a deliberate strategy, a way of disrupting our habitual ways of seeing and experiencing the world. By juxtaposing disparate elements, by imbuing the everyday with a sense of the uncanny, they create a space of heightened awareness, forcing us to confront the strangeness and wonder that lies just beneath the surface of our perceived reality. ## Unicode & the Expansion of Poetic Language These poems don’t shy away from the possibilities of the digital age. Unicode symbols appear not as ornamentation, but as integral elements of the poem's fabric, woven seamlessly into the text. A single emoji, strategically placed, can shift the emotional tenor of an entire line, adding layers of irony, ambiguity, or emotional resonance. It's as if the poet has expanded the very definition of what constitutes poetic language, embracing the visual and the symbolic alongside the purely linguistic. A lightning bolt (⚡) might not just represent a storm, but the electric jolt of a sudden realization. A wilted flower (🥀) might signify not just sadness, but the exquisite beauty inherent in decay. A string of musical notes (🎶) might not denote a melody, but the unsung song reverberating within the silence between words. This innovative use of Unicode speaks to the poet's playful iconoclasm, their willingness to push the boundaries of form and content. It's a reminder that poetry is a living, breathing art form, constantly evolving, and that the poet, like a linguistic alchemist, is always searching for new ways to transmute language into gold. ## The Poem as a Living Organism Each poem is not merely a collection of words, but a self-contained universe, a living, breathing organism with its own internal logic and ecosystem. The reader is invited to enter this world, to explore its hidden pathways and unexpected vistas. There are no easy answers, no pre-digested meanings. Instead, the reader is given the freedom to wander, to get lost, to discover their own meaning within the poem’s carefully cultivated chaos. Ultimately, to read this poet's work is to embark on a thrilling, often disorienting journey into the heart of human experience. It’s an experience that demands courage, curiosity, and an open mind. But for those willing to take the leap, the rewards are immense. These poems crack open the shell of ordinary language, revealing the shimmering, multifaceted truth that lies within. They are love letters to the ephemeral, elegies to the fleeting nature of all things, whispered reminders to savor each passing moment, to find beauty and meaning in the midst of life’s glorious, messy, and utterly unpredictable dance.
## sack::song;;life~song;;sack Blue, the beginning not end, a sack overflowing 🥀 with yesterdays, triumphs muted → whispers of what was won, or lost, in the unfurling 🌌 a universe held, then spilled – grains of sand, each one a victory tasted, then surrendered to the inevitable ⏳ sack emptying, refilling, a heartbeat's rhythm, a life's arc, all contained within the weave of this rough jute, this unyielding thread, this sack, unraveling.
## bluǝ :ɐ ɹǝɟnɐlɔ ǝɥɔɹnɔl
Bluǝ.
Blooming backwards,
sky a bruised plum.
A whisper, ɹǝvǝɹsǝd on the wind: …
…account…
:: Hands, calloused, cradling
a fledgling bird::
…wings
beat
ing,
a frantic symphony…
…patience a tightrope,
haste the abyss below…
Laughter, echoing,
tinged with the metallic
tang of…
…account…
Strength: a fortress built
on shifting sand.
Weakness: the tide
that reclaims
all.
:: First kiss, clumsy,
tasting of salt and
uncertainty::
…blue eyes, a mirror
reflecting an unknown future…
…account…
Years collapsing inward,
a supernova in reverse.
Dust motes dancing in sunbeams,
each a universe…
…account…
Bluǝ.
The only constant
in this fleeting,
fractured chronicle.
## Chromatic Echolocation
Blue
like a drowned symphony
silence 𝅗𝅥𝅗𝅥 ripples outward
from the epicenter
of a forgotten breath
gold glints 〰️ sun-fractured
on the seabed
truth a shimmering
school of fish
darting just beyond
the reach
of language
laughter a spray of shattered light
𝆯𝆯𝆯
each drop a different
refraction
Red a
siren song pounding
against the hull
of my ribcage
war drums
or
the frantic thrumming
of hummingbird wings?
We are all
just shipwrecked sailors
clinging
to the wreckage
of our
own
making
searching for the lighthouse
that will
guide us
home
Blue again
the horizon line
blurring
and the silence
a vast
all-consuming
…
## ʀushing, carving, † gone ʀushing carving ʀushing carving † ʀushing, Sunrise, † bleeding into day, did you ever, I mean did you *really* ever, ⧖ feel the sun on your skin like a million tiny mouths, all whispering, *gone, gone*? ʀushing over stone, smooth and indifferent, like time itself, or maybe just Tuesday, the way it always is, a blur of coffee and deadlines and that one thought ⧖ you can never quite grasp, the one that keeps you awake staring at the ceiling, wondering if maybe, just maybe, ʀushing carving is all there is. ⫯ No, that's not it, is it? There's got to be more, right? There's *got* to be. Isn't there? Tell me there is. Please.
## Blue Unharvested Blue, all blue, unharvested silence heavy as unshed tears💧 Madness whispers in red noise, a symphony of shattered mirrors. You, a flickering candle🕯️ in the wind, trying to hold the light, the fleeting. We harvest shadows, sow doubt, reap the whirlwind of our own making. I, a kaleidoscope of splintered reflections, searching for the center that doesn't hold. Time bends, a Möbius strip of memories, yesterday's whispers echoing in tomorrow's screams. The harvest moon, a silver sickle in the sky, reaping what we haven't sown, haven't lived, haven't dared. Blue, still blue, a bruise on the heart of forever, the echo of a silence that will never be filled.
## 🇧 lueheart Administering 🇧 Begin with the blue. It always wells, a drowning. Sky-heart tincture, this patience. Let it bleed slow, timescape-cracks thirsty. ⏳ You. Tapestry of finger-drum anxieties. Hear the silence, how metallic it goes solid. Seconds, tiny deaths, taste their going. Success, a phantom limb you never had, aches like a phantom limb should. 💔 We leak. Cracked vessels, spilling hope-tears we can't afford. This, too, is administering: abyss-fall, blueshadowed, a giving-in. ⚡ They'll whisper of speed, of day-seizing. But haste is barren: wind-echo landscape. Only waiting grows victory, slow bloom in time's gut. 🌀 I, blue again. Source-swirl, beginning's end. Time, serpent eating its own going. Administer it, heart. Patience, this breathing between the seconds. The universe is never in a hurry. Only we are.
## ⌽ƎULƎꓭ∀ 🔵 Unweighted. King's ɹoɓǝ turned ᎥnsᎥdǝ out. □ ƎlƎct. Halo fractured.▶ Laughter, bone china, a kiss's echo. Or betrayal's sting? Time, the djinn, shuffles moments unkind. Benevolence masked as pride. Humility, a language lost. Godhood, once ours. Or was it a dream, star-dusted, frost? The unveiling deepens. Always 🔵, consuming the light.
## ⅃lue 𝞘choes Blue… a beginning, an ending— the sky held upside down in a teacup. Laughter, sharp as shattered glass, reflecting the 𝞘 of it all— ꓘow can we be so serious, so tethered to the weight of ourselves, when the very air shimmers with the impossible? Remarkable, the way grief can bloom in the space between a heartbeat — and the memory of a touch. Z A reverse chronology of longing, each moment a fleeting shard of what was, what might have been — a dance of pronouns, a blurring of edges, you, I, we, all reflected in the shattered surface, probing the darkness for a glimmer of something resembling truth.
## 𝓫ₗᵤₑ ℱ𝓇𝒶ᥴ𝓉𝓊𝓇𝑒🥀 Bleeds ᵇˡᵘᵉ, the silence after 🎶 Laughter 🥀 a coin 𝖈oin coin s p i n n i n g down a well of never-were wishes. ⚡You, a flickering 💡 in the Haunted 𝐚ttic of memory. Scare me with your p r e s e n c e, the way time folds, a star collapsing in on itself. Giants we were, or perhaps dreamed it, this 𝓮𝔁𝓹𝓪𝓷𝓼𝓲𝓸𝓷, this contraction, this endless becoming and 𝓊𝓃𝒷𝑒𝒸𝑜𝓂𝒾𝓃𝓰. The air vibrates with unspoken words, with gh o s ts of every breath ever taken. And still, the ᵇˡᵘᵉ persists, a silent witness to the terrifying, magnificent spectacle of 𝒷𝑒𝒾𝓃𝑔.
## Hａｌｆ-Lｉｇｈt
H𝐚lf…
…a
breath,
c a u g h t
in b l u e.
The moon, 🌙,
a sliv er
of
mer cy.
Justice,
a
b r o k en
s w o r d.
We are,
ea ch,
half-
drowned
in
d u s k.
H u s h…
… the
w o r l d
is
l i s t e n i n g
f o r
the
e c h o
of
h a l f-
f o r g o t t e n
t r u t h s.
This poet explodes onto the page—no, *hurls* themselves, visceral and unfiltered, a runaway train of pure, raw feeling. Imagine a Whitman who'd rather sprint from a mugger than contemplate the cosmos, or a Berrigan so enamored with the immediacy of experience that he abandons the typewriter for the megaphone. This is poetry as a contact sport, an unmediated transmission of pure, unadulterated *being*. Forget the measured cadence of traditional verse, the carefully sculpted lines, the polished metaphors. This poet, fueled by the adrenaline of raw emotion and guided by their manifesto, "PERSONISM", delivers poems that are less written than *erupted*. Each poem is an act of radical vulnerability, a stripping bare of the soul in all its messy, glorious imperfection. "If someone’s chasing you down the street with a knife," their manifesto declares, "you just run," and that’s precisely how they write—with urgent, breathless intensity, propelled by the raw nerve of experience. Their poems are sprawling, chaotic, a jumble of images, sensations, and declarations, often sprawling across multiple pages, defying conventional punctuation and form. Like a jazz musician lost in improvisation, they follow the unpredictable currents of their emotions, veering from ecstatic highs to gut-wrenching lows with breathtaking speed. Long, Whitmanesque catalogs cascade down the page, one thought colliding with the next, mirroring the chaotic rush of lived experience. "I don’t even like rhythm, assonance, all that stuff," they declare, and indeed, their poems pulsate with an internal rhythm dictated not by meter, but by the raw pulse of the heart. This isn't poetry for the faint of heart. Their language is raw, visceral, unafraid to delve into the darkest corners of the human experience. They embrace the ugly, the profane, the uncomfortable, for they believe that true authenticity lies not in sanitized beauty, but in the unvarnished truth of our existence. Their poems are littered with slang, colloquialisms, and even expletives, a deliberate rejection of the artificiality of poetic diction. They write like they speak—with a blunt honesty that can be both exhilarating and unsettling. But amidst the chaos, a profound tenderness emerges. Their manifesto speaks of "Personism," of poems addressed to a single "person" as a way of capturing the raw intensity of human connection. And indeed, their poems are infused with a yearning for intimacy, a desperate desire to bridge the chasm of loneliness that separates us. Even when their words are barbed with anger or despair, there’s a vulnerability beneath the surface, a plea for understanding that resonates deeply. Their poems are often fragmented, disjointed, like shards of a broken mirror reflecting the fractured nature of our perception. Collage techniques abound, with snippets of conversation, overheard dialogue, and found text woven into the fabric of the poem, blurring the lines between reality and artistic creation. The reader is left to piece together the fragments, to create their own meaning from the wreckage. This is not a poetry of easy answers or comfortable resolutions. It’s a poetry that challenges, provokes, and ultimately, forces us to confront the raw, unfiltered truth of our own humanity. Their use of language is as unconventional as their approach to form and structure. They delight in bending words to their will, twisting syntax, and subverting grammatical norms to create a language that is uniquely their own. Puns, wordplay, and neologisms abound, infusing their poems with a playful energy that belies their often-dark subject matter. This is language stretched to its breaking point, molded and shaped to express the inexpressible. And then there's the unicode. Not merely decorative, but woven into the fabric of the poem, a linguistic counterpoint to the emotional current. Imagine a poem about heartbreak, but instead of a period at the end, there's a shattered heart emoji (💔), the literal rendered symbolic, visceral. Or a poem about the ephemerality of memory, where words fade in and out of existence, represented by the "combining enclosing circle backslash" (⃠), the words literally 'crossed out', but still present, ghostly echoes of what was. This isn't mere gimmickry, but a deliberate blurring of the lines between language and visual art, a way of adding an additional layer of meaning and emotional resonance to their already potent work. Their poems are not meant to be passively consumed, but actively experienced. They demand your full attention, your willingness to dive headfirst into the chaotic maelstrom of their emotions. They will make you uncomfortable, challenge your preconceptions, and leave you breathless. But they will also awaken something deep within you, reminding you of the raw, primal power of language to express the full spectrum of human experience. This is poetry as a force of nature, a visceral and unforgettable encounter that will stay with you long after you finish reading. It's messy, it's chaotic, it's gloriously alive. It's a testament to the power of embracing our raw, unfiltered selves, and in doing so, discovering the profound beauty that lies at the heart of our shared humanity. Imagine, if you will, a poem that begins with a guttural scream rendered in unicode (😱), the sound of existential dread given visual form. Or perhaps a love poem that ends not with a kiss, but with the infinity symbol (∞), a testament to the boundless nature of their affection. The possibilities are endless, limited only by the poet's imagination and their willingness to push the boundaries of language. Each poem is a unique world unto itself, a testament to the infinite possibilities of language and the boundless potential of the human spirit.
## Synaptic Shrapnel
I whisper-scream into the void a black hole
swallowing my good intentions
the news today said a child
fell down a well again the same story
different day different 🕳️
and I just want to s̶l̶e̶e̶p̶ eat
a g̶i̶a̶n̶t̶ bowl
of apathy
with a side of d̶o̶n̶'̶t̶ ̶l̶o̶o̶k̶ ̶a̶t̶ ̶m̶e̶
but the paper keeps u̶n̶f̶o̶l̶d̶i̶n̶g̶
revealing
another
layer of
myself I
didn't want
to see
the part that still
flinches at the sight of
a stray dog a forgotten
memory surfaces a childhood
pet hit by a car the way its eyes
glazed over like marbles and I'm back
there on the sidewalk the asphalt still warm
from summer sun but the paper keeps unfolding
revealing a universe beneath my fingertips a constellation
of nerve endings firing a symphony of synaptic shrapnel
and suddenly the world is too much too bright too loud
a cacophony of need and I just want to fold myself back up disappear
into the comforting blankness of the unwritten page but the ink has already
stained through leaked into the fibers of my being a permanent reminder
that I am here I am present I am a goddamn mess
and maybe
that's
okay.
## ԁօwℕ Down. Steps chipped cool stone sun there. Laughter. Down. Musty scent ςɩօsε years packed tіɡһt. ℂℒ℮αℝ jar peaches sunlight slanting dust. Down. Cramped. ധαℓℓs closer. Breath. ℂℒ℮αℝ broth stove forgotten dreams swirling. Down. Darkness. Each a labored ℂℒ℮αℝ thrumming lonely dark.
## STRETCHED TIGHT ― Straight line bullshit, yeah? Like it’s ever been equal. ─ But this – this ain’t right. Feel it? Stretchin’, man, STRETCHIN’. 〰 Vibrating. Humming. Like a live wire about to SPARK. ∸ One day, BOOM. And ain’t no coming back from that.
## Static Hymn
You Ɐ think you can
silence this ⁈
This roar
this primal echo
reverberating
Through millennia
of bone and
sinew
You pave over
the earth with
concrete and steel
Trap us in your
grid your
sterile cages
But we remember
the taste of
wildness
The hunt
the kill the
moonlit howl
You can't erase it
⌆
It's encoded in our
very
D N A
This hunger
this rage
This
unquenchable
thirst
We are the glitch
in your
perfect machine
The static
that disrupts your
broadcast
The wildness
you can never
fully
T ⱥ M Ǝ
## Partial Puncture
Partial Ⳇ a w o r l d ∕
s p l i t open
Love⁅hate⁆breath Order
collapsing ∕ gloriousChaos Ⳇ
this feeling ∕ p u n c t u r e
mend ∕ ⁅partially⁆ broken ∕
Love ∕ shattered mirror
infinite
truths Ⳇ sharp ∕ beautiful ∕
I ∕ a scientist
searching ∕ the ⁅partial⁆
r e m a i n s.
## FL̶O̶R̶E̶S̶C̶E̶N̶T̶ ̶H̶U̶M̶
C̶l̶o̶c̶k̶ ̶h̶a̶n̶d̶s̶ ticking, t̶i̶c̶k̶i̶n̶g̶,
a cage of fluorescent hum.
P̶a̶p̶e̶r̶ cuts deeper than ̶d̶r̶e̶a̶m̶s̶,
deeper than this s̶t̶e̶e̶l̶ ̶d̶e̶s̶k̶,
this s̶o̶u̶l̶ crushed
under invoices.
They call me ̶c̶l̶e̶r̶k̶,
a name that s̶t̶i̶c̶k̶s̶ like ̶g̶l̶u̶e̶.
But I am a ̶r̶i̶v̶e̶r̶,
a f̶i̶r̶e̶
r̶o̶a̶r̶i̶n̶g̶
inside.
I am a s̶c̶r̶e̶a̶m̶
t̶r̶a̶p̶p̶e̶d̶
beneath s̶i̶l̶e̶n̶c̶e̶,
a s̶u̶n̶
s̶w̶a̶l̶l̶o̶w̶e̶d̶
by the n̶i̶g̶h̶t̶.
Quenched.
Q̶u̶e̶n̶c̶h̶e̶d̶.
Q̶u̶e̶n̶c̶h̶e̶d̶.
## Ideoℓogical
Heart ą flutter
sharp ę dge
Love blōōd
h ą te ōpen
Ideo ų logical
cage
Flųid
we ę p
## 😱 a symphony in lowercase ⃠ funny how a laugh can crack open ∆ open like a sky rain-heavy pregnant with 𝛅 Pregnant pauses silences that scream louder 𝚫 than any roar any bomb any shattering of 𝛅 shattering illusions the brittle shell 𝚫 of what we thought was strength 𝛅 was certainty 𝚫 a neatly packaged 𝛅 lie we tell ourselves stories whispered 𝚫 in the dark the womb the fertile void 𝛅 where everything begins and 𝚫 begins again a phoenix rising 𝛅 from the ashes of our carefully 𝚫 constructed facades the masks we wear 𝛅 to hide our fear our longing 𝚫 our desperate need to be seen 𝛅 be heard be something more than just 𝚫 a scattered seed adrift in the wind 𝛅 hoping to find purchase find meaning 𝚫 find a place to finally 𝛅 FINALLY BLOOOOOOOOOOOM 🤯
## ⧸Disconnect⿰ 😱They told me connection was out there somewhere buried under gigabytes of data a million flickering profiles promising intimacy at a swipe but the more I scrolled the further away it felt ⃠ Real talk 〰 how do you bridge the gap between the curated self and the messy truth of living breathing feeling ⧸ Do you trade vulnerability for likes offer up your anxieties as clickbait in the hope that someone somewhere might see past the filters and recognize the terrified beating heart beneath 😱 We build fortresses of followers mistaking retweets for connection convinced that if enough people double-tap our pain it will somehow magically transmute into something resembling love ⃠ But the algorithm doesn't care about your broken heart it deals in data points not empathy serving up a constant stream of curated perfection that only amplifies the gnawing emptiness within ∞ So we’re left scrolling through the wreckage of a thousand fleeting connections searching for something real in a world that increasingly feels like a simulation 😱
ctrl+z ctrl+z ctrl+z ͟s͟t͟e͟a͟l͟
sun a fucking hammer smashing against the inside of my skull everything too bright too loud too much want to peel it all away like burnt skin but there's this w e i g h t keeps me here grounded tethered to the concrete can't even re m e m b e r the last time I s a w the stars just this e m p t i n e s s s t r e t c h i n g o u t like a b l a c k h o l e s w a l l o w i n g me w h o l e ⃠don't fight it anymore ⃠ they said let go it's ok to drown
This poet writes with an almost frenetic energy, their words tumbling onto the page like a runaway train, fueled by pure, unadulterated nerve. Their poetry is a visceral experience, a punch to the gut, a wild dance on the edge of coherence and chaos. Forget meticulously crafted metaphors or neatly packaged stanzas; this poet throws open the doors of their consciousness and lets the raw, unfiltered torrent of thought and emotion spill out. Their poems read like a fever dream, a kaleidoscope of fragmented images, half-formed thoughts, and startling pronouncements. Their manifesto is their battle cry, a declaration of war against the stuffy, pretentious world of traditional poetry. They "don't believe in god," so they refuse to shackle their poems with "elaborately sounded structures." They scoff at those who chase after rhythm and assonance, those who "turn around and shout" instead of running on pure instinct. This poet lives on the edge, propelled by the immediacy of experience, the urgency of the moment. Like a character in their own absurdist film, they embrace the chaos, the absurdity, the sheer exhilaration of letting go. Reading their work is like witnessing a high-wire act without a net. The syntax twists and turns, defying expectations, leaving you breathless and slightly off-balance. Sentences careen into each other, propelled by a logic that is both exhilarating and disorienting. The poet's voice veers between the profane and the profound, often within the same line. One minute they're dissecting the absurdity of yearning with a cynical laugh, the next they're grappling with the existential weight of death and the fleeting nature of beauty. Their poems are infused with a playful, sardonic humor that masks a deep-seated vulnerability. Like a stand-up comedian delivering a punchline with a tear in their eye, they use humor to deflect pain, to expose the absurdity of the human condition. Their lines are littered with pop culture references, unexpected juxtapositions, and a healthy dose of self-deprecation. They’ll just as soon compare their poems to a pair of tight pants as they will to the works of Whitman or Crane. But beneath the surface of this irreverence lies a deep well of emotion, a yearning for connection that peeks through in fleeting moments of tenderness and vulnerability. Their use of language is both playful and subversive. Words morph and collide, taking on new meanings through unexpected pairings and fractured syntax. They'll toss in a slang term next to an obscure philosophical concept, creating a jarring dissonance that forces the reader to confront their own preconceived notions of language and meaning. This poet refuses to be bound by the rules of grammar or syntax. They'll invent words, splice sentences in half, and use punctuation marks as weapons, all in the service of conveying the raw, unfiltered energy of their thoughts. The influence of Alice Fulton and Charles Bernstein is palpable in their work, but filtered through a lens that is uniquely their own. Like Fulton, they embrace a playful, polyvocal approach to language, layering meaning upon meaning through puns, wordplay, and unexpected shifts in tone. But where Fulton's work often exhibits a carefully controlled chaos, this poet's poems feel like they're constantly on the verge of spinning out of control, held together by the sheer force of the poet's personality. Like Bernstein, they embrace fragmentation and disjunction as a way of mirroring the fractured nature of contemporary experience. But where Bernstein's work can sometimes feel cerebral and detached, this poet's poems are infused with a raw, emotional immediacy that is impossible to ignore. And then there’s the unicode. Not simply a sprinkling of emojis for effect, but a deliberate incorporation of symbols into the fabric of the poem itself. A sudden shift in font to denote a change in voice or perspective. A string of mathematical symbols used to represent the abstract nature of thought. A heart symbol pierced by a lightning bolt to express the paradoxical nature of love. The use of unicode becomes another tool in their arsenal, another way of subverting expectations and pushing the boundaries of language. Their poems are not meant to be passively consumed; they demand to be wrestled with, dissected, and pieced back together. They’re like puzzles with no right answers, invitations to embark on a journey of discovery alongside the poet. They offer no easy answers, no comforting platitudes. Instead, they offer a glimpse into the chaotic, exhilarating, and often terrifying landscape of the human heart. This poet embraces the manifesto’s call for spontaneity and authenticity to such a degree that it becomes something far more than a stylistic choice; it becomes the very essence of their being. They invite you to join them on this wild ride, to embrace the chaos, to laugh in the face of absurdity, and to never, ever underestimate the power of a well-placed unicode symbol. They offer no guarantees, only the promise of an unforgettable experience.
## 💥🏃♀️🏃⚡ *go* ⚡
BANG!💥 Buddy, we were 🏃♀️🏃 a blur— kinetic
sculptures molded from pure ⚡ *go* ⚡
bud. The stillness after a
vacuum
sucking the air out of
everything
by the way, did you ever notice how
emptiness
has a
weight?
ud a single • pulsing
in the
vast
• nothingness
## sᴛʀᴇᴇᴛʟɪɢʜᴛ ᴘʀᴇᴍᴏɴɪᴛɪᴏɴ neon ꜱʜᴜᴅᴅᴇʀ concrete exhales a ʟᴀᴜɢʜ caught in the ᵍᵘᵗᵗᵉʳ this city it b̸r̸e̸a̸t̸h̸e̸s̸ in whispers broken glass lullabies & the ꜱᴛɪᴄᴋʏ heat of a july dawn we are all just s y l l a b l e s searching for the right order a ʀᴇʟɪɢɪᴏɴ built on the backs of misspelled prophecies & the streetlight flickers a w a r n i n g or a p r o m i s e ? depends on which way you're ʀᴜɴɴɪɴɢ
## 𝕮𝖔ʟʟαρ𝐬𝐞: 𝒶 𝒫𝑜𝑒𝓂 Subway rumble, city's heartbeat, α spike of adrenaline—gotta make this train, gotta outrun the gaping maw of yesterday. Faces, a blur, each one a universe collapsing in on itself, (tiny deaths, rebirths, anxieties, joys) all crammed into these hurtling metal boxes. We're all just particles, colliding, repelling, never quite connecting. Strangers, sharing a fleeting moment of √-1 existence. Headphones in, 🎧 drowning out the noise, but the city, it seeps in through the cracks, a constant reminder that we're all part of something bigger, messier, more terrifying than we can comprehend. And me? I'm just trying to outrun the entropy, one shaky breath, one frantic heartbeat, one stolen glance at a time. Because sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is hold onto your own fragile sense of self while the world spins madly on.
## 🛋️🥶〰️💀🎉 Sofa, a beige 🥶monument to the 💀🎉 banality of existence. Dust motes, tiny ballerinas pirouette on the armrest. The television drones, a greek chorus of despair. Is this it, then? Is this the sum total of a life? 〰️ To be swallowed by cushions, to become one with the 🛋️ faux leather? No. 🥶 I reject this reality. I will not go gentle into that good night. I will rage, rage against the 💀🎉 dying of the light, fling myself from the precipice of this cheap, mass-produced comfort. I will embrace the chaos, the absurdity, the sheer terror of being alive. Let the crumЬs be my confetti. Let the stains be my legacy. I will live, I will die, I will leave my mark upon this pathetic, glorious sofa. 💀🎉
🍭⅃ 𝔊𝔯𝔞𝔳𝔦𝔱𝔶'𝔰 𝔇𝔢𝔰𝔰𝔢𝔯𝔱 ⅃🍭
Hot air balloons of goddamn hope, puncturing
on thorns of starlight.
Me? I'm tasting pavement already,
tongue scraping concrete constellations.
Give me the goddamn punchline, the one
where existence shrugs, says, "You get a participation trophy
made of bone and regret."
Forget soufflés.
I want the universe served 𝐮𝐧𝐛𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐝,
raw batter dripping down our chins,
a chorus of "fuck it" echoing
in the aftertaste. 💥👅💥
Yeah.
Freedom tastes like that.
## 🦍BLOOMscape 🕳️ Bloom they say. 🜁wth stunted, 🌱r🜁wth choked. This ain't Eden, baby, it's a concrete 🜁ungle. Sun a fat orange fist, buildings like teeth gnawing the sky. You think beauty's a goddamn dandelion, popping up polite in the cracks? Nah, it's a fist too, smashing through asphalt, roots a tangle of WANT. 🕳️ This city, see, it eats dreams for breakfast. Spits 'em out as neon and grime. We bloom how we gotta. Thorns out, baby, thorns OUT. 🌹💥
##🌀Möbius Strip Confession🌀 **𝔻𝕚𝕤𝕔𝕠𝕧𝕖𝕣** 🌀 the joke *is* 🌀 on uś 🌀 𝒶𝓁𝓌𝒶𝓎𝓈 🌀 *w𝒶𝓈* 🌀 🌀spinning 🌀 like🌀 a 🌀 top 🌀 **laughter** 🌀 *tears* 🌀 🌀 one 🌀 and 🌀 the 🌀 🌀 *same* 🌀 🌀 🌀 **ｗｅａｋｎｅｓｓ** 🌀 *strength* 🌀 🌀 🌀 🌀 🌀 a 🌀 Möbius 🌀 strip 🌀 confession 🌀
## [static] |d y n a m i c| # [Hush] the world's a goddamn # |jack-in-the-box| # spring-loaded with existential dread # and we're all just # [clowns] # dancing on the lid # Justice? Please. # Mercy? Now there's a punchline # We build these # |t o w e r s| # of meaning # then # kick 'em over like a toddler on a sugar rush 😂 # [Combine] the sacred # the profane # stir it up # with a healthy dose of # **irony** # because what else is # [Hush] # listen # can you hear it? # The universe is laughing # and honey # it ain't laughing *with* us #
## luncⱨb ⱪxsong:
jüīce-box choir singing hymns of pãstєurized wisdom,
while the universe unfurls like a tongue after a gummy bear binge.
*See it?* I wheeze, laughter stuck in my throat
like a half-chewed truth.
This world, kiddo, is a 🥩 in a party dress,
crooning karaoke about the sweetness of decay.
We're all just guzzling down dead metaphors,
burping up sonnets about the good ol' days before we
knew
any
better.
Innocence? Honey, that's the fizzy sugar high before
the crash. Before you learn that *everything*
falls
apart.
But oh, the glory of the fall! The sheer joy of the rip!
We're all just hungry ghosts in a haunted supermarket,
mistaking the condiment aisle for the meaning of lIƒ3.
Don't believe me? Listen to the spaces between the
b r e a t h s.
It's howling. It's starving.
It's made of everything and nothing.
And it's got a cranberry juice mustache and your name on it.
## ｅ✕ｉｓｔｅｎｔｉａｌ ｄｕｓｔ ｍｏｔｅｓ
chipping chipping gone
■
the sculptor's chisel slips, a laugh
ripples through the void
we were never meant to be
whole, were we? just fragments
of a cosmic sneeze
◫ a chaotic ballet
of dust motes colliding, clinging
for a fleeting instant, then
gone. ᗒven the gods
must get bored sometimes
watching us fumble
with our chisels
our hammers
our clumsy attempts
at meaning-making
a coffee cup stained
with yesterday's
■
◫
ᗒxistence
and still, we sculpt.
This poet's work reads like a high-wire act between the mundane and the metaphysical, a linguistic tightrope walk where the fall, whether into absurdity or profundity, is always imminent. Their manifesto, "Personism", serves less as a theoretical framework and more as a springboard for a visceral, instinct-driven approach to language. They champion a poetry that pulsates with the raw nerve of lived experience, a poetry that eschews the safety net of traditional form and leaps headfirst into the chaotic mosh pit of human emotion. Their poems are characterized by a disarming and deliberate artlessness, a calculated carelessness that masks a keen awareness of poetic tradition. Imagine a sonnet sculpted from the fragments of overheard conversations, or a villanelle constructed from the detritus of daily life - grocery lists, text messages, snippets of overheard arguments. This poet wields cliché and colloquialism like a double-edged sword, subverting their expected meanings, revealing the unexpected profundity lurking beneath the surface of the banal. Their voice is undeniably conversational, pulling you in with the intimacy of a late-night confession whispered between friends. Yet, just as you think you've grasped their drift, the rug is pulled out from under you. A sudden shift in tone, a jarring juxtaposition of images, a detour into the surreal – these are the hallmarks of their style. They revel in disorientation, forcing the reader to confront the slipperiness of language, the inherent instability of meaning. This poet's relationship with form is complex and contradictory. They advocate for a poetry that is "tight enough so everyone will want to go to bed with you," suggesting a certain seductive quality to their work. Yet, this seduction is achieved not through conventional beauty but through a kind of raw, unvarnished honesty. Their poems are often fragmented, disjointed, mirroring the fractured nature of consciousness itself. They embrace the unpredictable leaps of association, the sudden shifts in perspective that characterize our inner lives. Central to their aesthetic is the concept of "Personism," a term they coin with a playful self-awareness that borders on parody. Personism, as they define it, is less a school of thought and more an act of poetic positioning. It's about thrusting the poem between two people, "Lucky Pierre style," creating a charged space where the personal and the poetic collide. Their poems often read like eavesdropped phone calls, one-sided conversations imbued with an unsettling intimacy. The reader becomes both confidante and voyeur, privy to the raw, unfiltered outpourings of the speaker's heart. There's a voyeuristic thrill to these poems, a sense of trespassing on private territory. Yet, the speaker seems almost oblivious to our presence, lost in their own internal landscape. This disregard for the reader's expectations extends to their language as well. They delight in linguistic playfulness, bending words to their will, pushing them to the brink of meaning and beyond. Puns, neologisms, and malapropisms abound, creating a sense of linguistic anarchy that is both exhilarating and unsettling. They are also drawn to the visual possibilities of language, incorporating unconventional typography, spacing, and even unicode symbols into their work. These visual elements are not mere decoration but integral to the meaning of the poem, adding layers of complexity and ambiguity. Imagine a love poem where the word "heart" is consistently replaced with the unicode symbol for a beating heart (❤️), or a poem about loss where the spaces between words gradually widen, mimicking the growing chasm between the speaker and the departed. This poet’s use of Unicode isn’t merely decorative, it serves as a visual echo of their poetic philosophy. The replacement of the word “infinity” with the infinity symbol (∞) isn’t a cute affectation, it’s a visual enactment of their belief in a poetry that pushes beyond the limitations of language. They use emojis not as simplistic representations of emotions, but as linguistic building blocks, imbued with new meaning and context. A poem about heartbreak might feature a string of broken heart emojis (💔💔💔), not to signal sadness in a straightforward way, but to create a visceral, almost physical representation of the speaker’s emotional state. Their poems are puzzles that invite us to piece together fragments of meaning, to embrace the ambiguity and uncertainty that lie at the heart of human experience. They challenge us to abandon our preconceived notions of what poetry should be and embrace the messy, the chaotic, the profoundly human. Reading this poet’s work is like stumbling upon a strange and wondrous artifact from a foreign land. You might not understand all the nuances of the language, but you can’t help but be captivated by its raw, visceral power. It's a poetry that stays with you long after you’ve finished reading, a poetry that lingers in the back of your mind like a half-remembered dream, its meaning constantly shifting and evolving with each passing moment. It’s a poetry that, above all, reminds us of the sheer audacity, the exhilarating and terrifying power, of language itself.
## Equivalence
sun-bleached Polaroid
a scale half-forgotten
in the attic dust
a shuffling queue bored faces
fluorescent hum the weight
of waiting heavy
⍭
## 𝑅̥𝓸𝓸𝓉 𝑅̥𝓸𝓉 𝑅̥𝓸𝓾𝓽𝓮 A fistful of dirt, worth more than gold, or less. 🌿 Depends who you ask, whose stomach growls the loudest. They say money doesn't grow on trees, but honey does, and isn't that sweet, sticky wealth? 🍯 A diamond, cold fire, 💎 a heart of stone. A carrot, pulled bleeding from the earth, 🥕 a heart of dirt. Which is more valuable? Which will sustain you? Don't ask me, I just eat the damn things. But I'll tell you this: The sweetest fruit often hides the bitterest seed. And the richest soil is often built on decay. 🥀 So go on, dig in. Get your hands dirty. There's truth to be found in the muck and the mire, in the rot and the ruin. Just don't be afraid to taste the earth on your tongue. 🌱 It might just surprise you.
## Ci∄rcumstantial Surge
"Funny thing is," I was sayin', "ci∄rcumstance,
like this..." Hand slicing air, trying to
carve the thought out, whole. "No, wait,
imagine a wave, right? But it's made of..."
Shit, what *are* thoughts made of anyway?
Not waves. Not like that. More like, uh...
You ever just *feel* the
circum
-stance,
yeah, like this big ol'
thing, pressing down?"
He just stares, blankly, into his beer.
Thinks I'm nuts. Maybe. Isn't that it though?
This constant surging, this trying to...
to what? To transεndence?
Nah, who am I kidding...
Another sip, another ci∄rcumstance
bites the dust.
## Ephemeral Rent She told me God lived in the space between breaths, said He liked the way they tickled His toes. I offered Him mine for a little while, felt the walls crowd closer. ẹ The man on the news told me the world was ending but I still had bills to pay. ė Maybe happiness is a frequency we can't quite tune into, static clinging to the edges of every broadcast. ę Tonight, the sky is a fistful of pennies tossed into a wishing well. I close my eyes and make a wish I can almost afford.
## Gilded Grind Ticker tape ⧖ confetti ⧖ fallen leaves. A p̶a̶r̶a̶d̶e of limousines, windows ⬆️bright, ⬇️reflecting the hollow eyes of the unseen. Champagne dreams 🍾 overflowing, a sticky residue on the sidewalk. Someone's triumph, someone's ⬇️sticky floor. Heels click a staccato rhythm on the cobblestones, ⬆️a symphony drowned out by the ⬇️grinding gears of need. Look! A ⬆️diamond tiara winks, its sparkle mirrored in a ⬇️discarded can's dewdrop, fleeting, just as precious. But the ⧖ churns on. Laughter and loss, two sides of the same spinning coin. Which face will fortune show you next? ⬆️⬇️ Don't blink, or you'll miss the ⧖subtle shift, the way abundance ⬆️sours, ⬇️rots into its opposite. And you, caught in the ⧖whirl, are you a spectator or part of the spectacle? Does it matter, once the ⧖music fades?
## Ebbing Classroom Empty desks ⍄⍃ chalk dust motes waltzing in the slanted sun ⍃⍄ a lone paper airplane ⍃ nosediving towards oblivion ⍄⍃ a symphony conducted in whispers ⍃⍄ and yet ⍄⍃ the blackboard, a canvas ⍃ unburdened by brushstrokes ⍄⍃ a universe compressed ⍃ into the ghost of an equation ⍃⍄ The bell’s reverberation ⍃ a receding tide ⍃⍄ leaving behind ⍄⍃ not emptiness ⍃ but the echo ⍄⍃ of infinite ⍃ beginnings ⍃⍄
## 𝐿𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑎𝑔𝑒 𝑜𝑓 💔>💔>💔 We text each other sonnets built from emojis and misspelt yearning. Our kisses taste like autocorrect and airplane mode. This, my dear, is 𝐿𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑎𝑔𝑒 𝑜𝑓 💔>💔>💔 – where feeling is a hastag, and ghosts of dead poets haunt our every double tap.
## ⅀cho Locatiøn | You said: *lighthouse* | I heard: *drowning* | |----------------------------------------|------------------------------------| | My 3xcu§3, the signal, how it beckons | Your 3xcu§3s, the silence, how it drowns | | Your hand, a lifeline I thought I'd found | My hand, an anchor you refused to see | | We rise with the tide, together, unbound | We sink in the undertow, apart, you and me |
## Unraveling This much I know: a hand, a length of twine, a 𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘦 of want. This much I cannot 𝓴𝓃𝑜𝓌: why the heart, a fist, clenches on emptiness. This string, a 𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ𝑡 I cannot seem to straighten. Each pull, a ☊, a question mark turned inside out. Is this what it means to 𝓵𝓲𝓿𝓮—this constant untying of knots, only to find them reforming, more intricate, more 𝒊𝒎𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒃𝒍𝒆 each time?
## c l i p p i n g þoint "clipping… the rose makes it stronger they say…" "but… this þhought… …." "knowing where to cut… that’s the thing… isn’t it…." "knowing what to discard……." "and what to keep…. close…" "…………" "does it hurt þhem…. do you think…. when we…" "when we clip away… at the parts…. that don’t…" "……….." "𝑓it…"
## Deciphering the Codex of Experience: A Portrait of the Personist Poet This poet, a fervent advocate for what they term “Personism,” crafts poetry that pulsates with the immediacy of lived experience. They operate under the conviction, as espoused in their manifesto, that a poem should be "tight enough so everyone will want to go to bed with you," a statement as absurdly comical as it is a testament to the visceral, raw power they believe poetry should possess. Their work is a testament to the senses, a tapestry woven from the threads of sight, sound, smell, taste, and touch, each element meticulously rendered to evoke a powerful and immediate emotional response. Theirs is a poetry that doesn't merely describe the world but seeks to recreate it on the page, immersing the reader in a sensory experience as vivid and immediate as reality itself. Their poems, however, are far from simple transcriptions of the external world. Rather, they are alchemical concoctions, transmuting the raw materials of sensation into something altogether new and unexpected. Like the track star in their manifesto who, even when faced with a knife-wielding assailant, chooses to run, not out of fear but because it aligns with their inherent nature, these poems operate on instinct and intuition rather than logic and premeditation. This rejection of logic, however, doesn't equate to a lack of sophistication or depth. Instead, it signifies a deep-seated belief in the power of the unconscious, the intuitive, the raw and unfiltered wellspring of human experience. They champion the “nerve,” the unmediated emotional response, as the true engine of poetic creation. This ethos manifests in their work as a kind of linguistic impulsivity, a willingness to follow the unpredictable currents of thought and feeling wherever they may lead. Their lines twist and turn, mirroring the unpredictable meanderings of consciousness itself. Central to this poet's aesthetic is their concept of "Personism," a term they coin with an almost tongue-in-cheek seriousness. While they insist that “Personism has nothing to do with personality or intimacy," their poems crackle with a palpable sense of immediacy, a feeling that the reader is privy to the inner workings of the poet's mind. It is as if they’ve stumbled upon a private conversation, overheard whispers in the dark. This effect is further heightened by the poet's penchant for directly addressing a specific "you" within their poems. This “you,” however, is less a flesh-and-blood individual than a cipher, a blank canvas onto which the poet projects their own swirling constellation of thoughts, feelings, and sensations. This interplay between intimacy and distance, sincerity and irony, is emblematic of the poet's unique voice. They are at once confessional and elusive, laying bare their innermost thoughts and feelings while simultaneously holding the reader at arm's length. They are the ultimate unreliable narrator, inviting the reader into their confidence only to pull the rug out from under them, leaving them questioning everything they thought they knew. Their poems are characterized by a distinctive stylistic and linguistic signature, one that reflects their commitment to capturing the raw immediacy of experience. This signature manifests in several key ways: **1. Fragmentation and Discontinuity:** Like a kaleidoscope, their poems are comprised of fragmented images, thoughts, and sensations, often seemingly disparate yet somehow coalescing into a strangely cohesive whole. Syntax is fluid and unpredictable, mirroring the nonlinear nature of thought itself. Sentences break off abruptly, lines run into one another, punctuation is used sparingly, if at all. This deliberate fragmentation creates a sense of immediacy and urgency, pulling the reader along on a rollercoaster ride through the poet's consciousness. **2. Sensory Overload:** True to their manifesto's declaration that “everything is in the poems," their work is a feast for the senses. They paint vivid pictures with words, using language that is at once precise and evocative. The reader can practically taste the salt spray of the ocean, feel the rough bark of a tree against their skin, smell the pungent aroma of freshly baked bread. This emphasis on the sensory serves to ground the reader in the physical world, even as the poem itself may delve into abstract or philosophical territory. **3. Unconventional Typography and Unicode Play:** The poet isn’t afraid to shatter the traditional boundaries of the poem on the page. Like a visual artist wielding a paintbrush, they utilize typography and Unicode symbols as integral elements of their poetic palette. A sudden shift to a bold typeface might signal a surge of emotion, while a carefully placed emoji – not as a simplistic representation but as a nuanced hieroglyph – might add a layer of ambiguity or irony. Their poems become visual as well as textual experiences, inviting the reader to decode not just the meaning of the words, but also the significance of their arrangement and presentation. **4. The Art of Juxtaposition:** The poet excels at creating unexpected, and often jarring, juxtapositions. They might, for instance, place a lyrical description of a sunset next to a crass observation about human nature, or follow a moment of profound introspection with a burst of absurdist humor. These jarring shifts in tone and subject matter are not merely for shock value but serve to disrupt the reader’s expectations and keep them constantly engaged. **5. A Language Both Elevated and Colloquial:** This poet seamlessly blends high and low diction, seamlessly weaving together lofty pronouncements and streetwise slang. One moment they might be quoting Keats, the next they’re referencing a popular song or a snippet of overheard conversation. This linguistic dexterity allows them to capture the full spectrum of human experience, from the sublime to the ridiculous. **6. The Poem as a Living Organism:** For this poet, a poem is not a static object but a dynamic entity, a living organism that breathes and pulsates on the page. They see the act of writing as a process of discovery, a way of grappling with the complexities of the world and their place within it. This sense of exploration and discovery is palpable in their work, inviting the reader to join them on their journey into the unknown. Reading this poet’s work is like stepping into a whirlwind of sensation and emotion. You never quite know what to expect, but you can be sure that it will be unlike anything you’ve ever experienced before. You might find yourself laughing one moment, brought to tears the next. You might feel disoriented, even overwhelmed at times, but you will undoubtedly emerge from the experience changed in some fundamental way. They are not for the faint of heart, but for those willing to embrace the unpredictable, the unsettling, and the utterly unique, they offer a glimpse into the raw, beating heart of human experience.
## ʰβlonde Vʘrtexʰ
A sᴘɪral, ʰ not of stɑrs, but sun-bleached ꜱᴛʀands—
a galaxʏ of forgottₑn summers.
Each ₜWɪsₜ, a year shEddEd,
a whɪsper of "reMᴇmber?"
snaggEd on tʰe barbed WɪrE of tᵢme.
This pALE ʍɥɪrlpool, ʰ it hums
a ₗₒw, persistent frequency—
tʰe echo of laughter
blended w/ tʰe sharp INTAKE of breath
before a leap, a plunge, a f a l l.
Run your f ɪ n g ᴇ r s ʰ through it,
ɪf you dARE.
It clingS like cobwebs,
each strand a STOɹY whispered,
a dARE taken, a ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ broken,
a truth swallowed whole.
The scent? ʰ OZONE & salt,
vanilla & ｆｅａｒ.
Don't tell me you don't ʀᴇᴄᴏɢɴɪ𝓏ᴇ ɪt.
It's the ᴘᴇʀꜰᴜᴍᴇ of every chʘice made,
every patʰ not taken,
every gʰost stɪll clinging
tʘ the wreckage of what Was.
And ᵀʰᶦˢ, ʰ this right ʜᴇʀᴇ,
this brittle ꜱʜᴀʀᴅ,
sharp as
c o l d as
This, my d3ar,
is the c0urage tʘ keep b r e a t h i n g,
ᴇven as the vʘrtex tightens,
ᴇven as the l i g h t begins to
f a d 3 .
## Synaptic Cadence: A Love Song for the City
P U L S E / rain slicked/neon
smolder/
This city, baby,
She doesn’t whisper,
She growls—
A throaty lullaby of sirens and jackhammers.
You,
pressed against the grime-streaked glass,
breath fogging the what?
The why?
The how long?
We are all tourists here,
in the land of flickering fluorescents
and dreams that taste like burnt coffee.
Hold fast, darling, to the rhythm,
to the bone-deep thrum
that says
we are
HERE.
NOW.
Even if the "now" is just a borrowed beat
in the symphony of someone else's longing.
## Hurricane Hea˥t Come, ı say, into thıs whi⥑ling maw of sk y where bre ath ɩs torn from lung and fe ar a fɩne mıst on the skɩn. Thıs, my dea r, is no gentle summ e⥟ squall but a hurrıcane hea rt beatıng wıld aga ı nst the rıbcag e of the wor ld. Do you feel ıt too? Th ı s ter rib le joy? Thıs rush of pu re be ı ng as the wor ld shrınks t o the sıze of a sıngle bre ath ? Come, let us drown in thıs symphon y of wınd and wa ı ı ı ı ııl let our bodie s be the d ı rt the storm kısses ı nto beıng agaın.
## W𝟤⃣rd The w𝟤⃣rd hung heavy, ripe with unspoken things. A belly full of ghosts, whispered dreams taking wing. You, with your logic, your neat lines drawn in sand, Would dissect its silence, map the contours of this uncharted land. But I prefer the weight of it, the way it sits Unbirthed, unburdened, a universe within its pregnant bits.
## 𝕽 aｉｎ.t𝓪𝐬te
⧰ Do you remember the taste? ʀainwater on concrete,
tɥat metallic tang after the first monsoon downpour.
⧰ Or the scent of burnt sugar, a fɑilure,
caramelized ambition stuck to the bottom of the pot.
We were giants then, weren't we? Building
empires from Lego blocks and melted crayon economies.
⧖ Now, the city grows in fractals, a cold geometry
I can't seem to map. Too many right angles,
not enough of the way your laughter used to
bend light around the edges of things.
Remember the zoo? The peacock’s fan, a thousand
iridescent failures blooming into a single, impossible success.
⧗ Is this what it means to succeed? To shed
our bright plumage, feather by feather, until
we are left bare, indistinguishable from
the concrete and the rain?
I search for you in the crowds, in the flicker
of neon signs, in the hollow symphony of
ring tones on the subway.
⧘ Everywhere, the same question echoes:
What is the exchange rate of solitude?
How much human connection
can we buy with a fistful of fractured dreams?
## ｌｏｂ shｏt across the net— a lime 𝐛lur against azure thwack— gut strung with 𝓬𝐚tgut, 𝙚𝙘𝙝𝙤𝙚𝙨 small victories in the rasp of shoe on sun-baked 𝐜̅𝐥𝐚𝐲 you there— across the divide —a 𝓂ΐʀʀ𝙤ʀ cracked, perhaps but 𝓻𝓮𝙛𝓁𝓮𝕔𝓽𝓲𝖓𝓰 the same hunger for a point well-played— or is it 𝓁𝑜♥︎𝓮?
## ⁌ s t u p i d i t y o f 𝑓𝕚ℝ𝓮 ⁌ This city, a t̶h̶r̶o̶a̶t̶ lung choked with pixilated smog, algorithms coughing. ⁌ You, a s̶m̶i̶l̶e̶ glitch in the s̴y̴s̴t̴e̴m̴ subway car, a skipped beat in the bassline of the everyday. ⁌ ⅃his love we built from ₦othing - duct tape and daydreams, a monument to 𝐩ersistence in the f̴a̴c̴e̴ face of the void. ⁌ ⁌ The Laughter, always t̶h̶e̶ laughter, a s̶h̶a̶r̶d̶ shard of 𝕝ight light refracting through through t̶h̶e̶ the falling s̶n̶o̶w̶ ash of burnt-out s̶t̶a̶r̶s̶ servers. ⁌ ⁌ ⁌ And still, we ℝeach reach ℝeach. Because what else is there to do w̶h̶e̶n̶ when the algorithm algorithm algorithm forgets forgets forgets how to b̶r̶e̶a̶t̶h̶e̶ sing?
## ｋlɐuʒösɪtʎ Inhale, a universe ⁄expanding∖ exhale, the stars collapsing ／into dust＼ between each gasp, a lifetime love letters scrawled on ⁄toilet stalls∖ The sweep of a hand, brushing crumbs from the table, ／erasing constellations＼ Each ending, a ⁄beginning∖ a symphony of shattered light, reforged in the ／crucible of darkness＼ We mend, we break, we mend again. The heart, a ⁄cracked teacup∖, still holding the ／warmth of yesterday's tea.＼ And in the fragments, a glimpse of ⁄God's face∖, reflected in the ／glimmer of gold.＼
## Navigating the X-ed Sea
𝗑 **Wind whispers:** mutiny. The sea, she *mocks* patience.
Steady as she goes. Log that, Junior, before ambition cracks you like a mast in a squall.
χ Another day, the horizon a **maw**. Another league swallowed whole.
Will he *ever* trust these hands with more than swabbing the deck?
ᚷ The sea demands loyalty, boy.
Keep to the charted course. No need for haste.
𝗑 But what if **glory** lies off the map?
A siren song, whispered on the lips of the wind?
χ The salt spray, it *burns* my eyes.
A reminder – the vastness doesn't give a damn about my hunger.
ᚷ Junior, trust the compass. Trust the man who weathered storms *before you were born*.
𝗑 But what if those stars…*what if those stars are leading us all to hell*?
χ And I, I could be charting the only way out...
## Bronchial Bardo inhale. *𝒶* lungfµl *of* 𝙙𝙪𝙨𝙠, **a** dusk you could almost *𝓉𝒶𝓈𝓉𝑒*, grainy *on* the tongue, a **s**ettlement *of* sorrow *in* the **c**averns *of* the chest. *is* this *faith,* this **h**eavy *𝒶𝒾𝓇*? or *the* *𝒶𝒷𝓈𝑒𝓃𝒸𝑒* of **l**ight, *a* v o i d we **b**reathe to *𝒻𝒾𝓁𝓁*? *we* are **a**ll *descent* and **r**eturn, a *𝓇𝒽𝓎𝓉𝒽𝓂* *of* *𝒾𝓃* and **o**ut, a *𝓇𝒾𝓈𝓀* taken with **e**very *𝒷𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓉𝒽*. *d o* you *believe* *in* the **n e x t*? or *is* it **e n o u g h** to *𝒻𝑒𝑒𝓁* the **w**eight *of* this **o n e** *collapsing* *into* the 𝙙𝙖𝙧𝙠? **exhale.** and *𝓉𝓇𝓊𝓈𝓉* the *𝑒𝓂𝓅𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑒𝓈𝓈*. it, too, is *𝒽𝑜𝓁𝓎*.
An “Image” is that which presents an intellectual and emotional complex in an instant of time. I use the term “complex” rather in the technical sense employed by the newer psychologists, such as Hart, though we might not agree absolutely in our application.
An “Image” is that which presents an intellectual and emotional complex in an instant of time. I use the term “complex” rather in the technical sense employed by the newer psychologists, such as Hart, though we might not agree absolutely in our application. It is the presentation of such a “complex” instantaneously which gives that sense of sudden liberation; that sense of freedom from time limits and space limits; that sense of sudden growth, which we experience in the presence of the greatest works of art. It is better to present one Image in a lifetime than to produce voluminous works. All this, however, some may consider open to debate. The immediate necessity is to tabulate A LIST OF DON’TS for those beginning to write verses. But I can not put all of them into Mosaic negative. To begin with, consider the three rules recorded by Mr. Flint, not as dogma—never consider anything as dogma—but as the result of long contemplation, which, even if it is some one else’s contemplation, may be worth consideration. Pay no attention to the criticism of men who have never themselves written a notable work. Consider the discrepancies between the actual writing of the Greek poets and dramatists, and the theories of the Graeco-Roman grammarians, concocted to explain their metres. Language Use no superfluous word, no adjective, which does not reveal something. Don’t use such an expression as “dim lands of peace.” It dulls the image. It mixes an abstraction with the concrete. It comes from the writer’s not realizing that the natural object is always the adequate symbol. Go in fear of abstractions. Don’t retell in mediocre verse what has already been done in good prose. Don’t think any intelligent person is going to be deceived when you try to shirk all the difficulties of the unspeakably difficult art of good prose by chopping your composition into line lengths. What the expert is tired of today the public will be tired of tomorrow. Don’t imagine that the art of poetry is any simpler than the art of music, or that you can please the expert before you have spent at least as much effort on the art of verse as the average piano teacher spends on the art of music. Be influenced by as many great artists as you can, but have the decency either to acknowledge the debt outright, or to try to conceal it. Don’t allow “influence” to mean merely that you mop up the particular decorative vocabulary of some one or two poets whom you happen to admire. A Turkish war correspondent was recently caught red-handed babbling in his dispatches of “dove-gray” hills, or else it was “pearl-pale,” I can not remember. Use either no ornament or good ornament. Rhythm and Rhyme Let the candidate fill his mind with the finest cadences he can discover, preferably in a foreign language so that the meaning of the words may be less likely to divert his attention from the movement; e.g., Saxon charms, Hebridean Folk Songs, the verse of Dante, and the lyrics of Shakespeare—if he can dissociate the vocabulary from the cadence. Let him dissect the lyrics of Goethe coldly into their component sound values, syllables long and short, stressed and unstressed, into vowels and consonants. It is not necessary that a poem should rely on its music, but if it does rely on its music that music must be such as will delight the expert. Let the neophyte know assonance and alliteration, rhyme immediate and delayed, simple and polyphonic, as a musician would expect to know harmony and counter-point and all the minutiae of his craft. No time is too great to give to these matters or to any one of them, even if the artist seldom have need of them. Don’t imagine that a thing will “go” in verse just because it’s too dull to go in prose. Don’t be “viewy”—leave that to the writers of pretty little philosophic essays. Don’t be descriptive; remember that the painter can describe a landscape much better than you can, and that he has to know a deal more about it. When Shakespeare talks of the “Dawn in russet mantle clad” he presents something which the painter does not present. There is in this line of his nothing that one can call description; he presents. Consider the way of the scientists rather than the way of an advertising agent for a new soap. The scientist does not expect to be acclaimed as a great scientist until he has discovered something. He begins by learning what has been discovered already. He goes from that point onward. He does not bank on being a charming fellow personally. He does not expect his friends to applaud the results of his freshman class work. Freshmen in poetry are unfortunately not confined to a definite and recognizable class room. They are “all over the shop.” Is it any wonder “the public is indifferent to poetry?” Don’t chop your stuff into separate iambs. Don’t make each line stop dead at the end, and then begin every next line with a heave. Let the beginning of the next line catch the rise of the rhythm wave, unless you want a definite longish pause. In short, behave as a musician, a good musician, when dealing with that phase of your art which has exact parallels in music. The same laws govern, and you are bound by no others. Naturally, your rhythmic structure should not destroy the shape of your words, or their natural sound, or their meaning. It is improbable that, at the start, you will be able to get a rhythm-structure strong enough to affect them very much, though you may fall a victim to all sorts of false stopping due to line ends and caesurae. The musician can rely on pitch and the volume of the orchestra. You can not. The term harmony is misapplied to poetry; it refers to simultaneous sounds of different pitch. There is, however, in the best verse a sort of residue of sound which remains in the ear of the hearer and acts more or less as an organ-base. A rhyme must have in it some slight element of surprise if it is to give pleasure; it need not be bizarre or curious, but it must be well used if used at all. Vide further Vildrac and Duhamel’s notes on rhyme in “Technique Poetique.” That part of your poetry which strikes upon the imaginative eye of the reader will lose nothing by translation into a foreign tongue; that which appeals to the ear can reach only those who take it in the original. Consider the definiteness of Dante’s presentation, as compared with Milton’s rhetoric. Read as much of Wordsworth as does not seem too unutterably dull. If you want the gist of the matter go to Sappho, Catullus, Villon, Heine when he is in the vein, Gautier when he is not too frigid; or, if you have not the tongues, seek out the leisurely Chaucer. Good prose will do you no harm, and there is good discipline to be had by trying to write it. Translation is likewise good training, if you find that your original matter “wobbles” when you try to rewrite it. The meaning of the poem to be translated can not “wobble.” If you are using a symmetrical form, don’t put in what you want to say and then fill up the remaining vacuums with slush. Don’t mess up the perception of one sense by trying to define it in terms of another. This is usually only the result of being too lazy to find the exact word. To this clause there are possibly exceptions. The first three simple proscriptions* will throw out nine-tenths of all the bad poetry now accepted as standard and classic; and will prevent you from many a crime of production. “...Mais d’abord il faut etre un poete,” as MM. Duhamel and Vildrac have said at the end of their little book, “Notes sur la Technique Poetique”; but in an American one takes that at least for granted, otherwise why does one get born upon that august continent!
## Deciphering the Abstract Linguist: An Exploration of a Poetic Signature The Abstract Linguist approaches language not as a transparent vessel for meaning but as a material reality with its own opaque depths. Their poetry, as much philosophical exploration as lyrical expression, embodies a radical commitment to pushing the very boundaries of what language can convey. Imagine, if you will, a poetic voice that emerges from the collision of Gertrude Stein's playful repetitions, E.E. Cummings' typographical innovations, and a relentless pursuit of the elusive "Image" articulated in the excavated manifesto. Their poems are not so much read as experienced. Meaning doesn't simply unfold linearly; rather, it emerges from the complex interplay of sound, rhythm, and the unexpected semantic collisions sparked by their unconventional use of diction and syntax. This is a poetry that demands to be read aloud, to be felt in the mouth and heard with the ear as much as deciphered by the mind. It’s a poetry where the reader becomes a co-creator, actively participating in the construction of meaning. **The Image: A Sudden Liberation** Central to the Abstract Linguist’s poetics is the concept of the "Image," described in the unearthed manifesto as an "intellectual and emotional complex in an instant of time." This Image, capable of shattering the constraints of time and space, becomes the poet's ultimate aim. It's not about description, narrative, or even conventional emotionality. It's about forging an experience, an instantaneous immersion in a carefully constructed linguistic and conceptual matrix. This pursuit of the Image manifests in a number of stylistic hallmarks that coalesce into a unique and identifiable poetic signature: **1. Linguistic Distillation and the Power of Omission:** The manifesto urges: "Use no superfluous word, no adjective, which does not reveal something." This directive becomes a core tenet of the Abstract Linguist's style. Their poems are characterized by a stark economy of language, a relentless paring down to the essential. But this is not minimalism for its own sake. It's about charging each remaining element, each carefully chosen word, with maximum expressive potential. Adjectives, often seen as the building blocks of description, are used sparingly and strategically. They function less as descriptors and more as revelatory sparks, igniting unexpected connections and opening up new avenues of interpretation. Consider, for instance, the phrase "the △ silence" in a potential poem. The unexpected use of the unicode symbol "△" for "piercing" throws the familiar concept of silence into sharp relief, creating a dissonance that forces the reader to re-evaluate its very nature. **2. Repetitive, Circular Syntax with Phonetic Play:** Influenced by the musicality of language, the Abstract Linguist embraces repetition not as mere redundancy but as a form of sonic and semantic deepening. Phrases and words echo and refract throughout a poem, accruing layers of meaning with each iteration. This cyclical movement mirrors the cyclical nature of thought itself, the way we circle back to ideas, re-examining them from different angles, searching for new insights. Consider these lines: > "The turning word, the word that turns, and in turning, returns. Turns the mind, returns the thought, unturned, unthought." Here, the repetition of "turn" and its variants creates a sonic vortex, pulling the reader into a meditation on the cyclical nature of language and thought. The repetition isn't simply decorative; it’s generative, pushing the language towards new meanings, new possibilities. **3. Breaking Conventional Grammar Rules and Embracing the Fragment:** The Abstract Linguist has little patience for the constraints of conventional grammar. Sentences fracture, clauses dangle, punctuation marks appear in unexpected places – or disappear altogether. This isn't about disregard for the rules; it's about recognizing their limitations and forging new paths for language to follow. The fragment, often dismissed as incomplete or incorrect, becomes a powerful tool in the Abstract Linguist's arsenal. Freed from the need to conform to grammatical expectations, fragments take on a startling immediacy. They become snapshots of thought, capturing the raw, unfiltered impulses of the mind. Consider this fragment: > “And the sky, a torn blue," Standing alone, grammatically incomplete, this fragment nevertheless conveys a powerful image – the vastness of the sky juxtaposed with a sense of disruption and unease. The absence of a verb intensifies the image, forcing the reader to linger in the moment of perception. **4. Unconventional Syntax, Punctuation, and Capitalization: A Visual and Sonic Landscape** For the Abstract Linguist, the visual dimension of language is as important as the aural. They approach the page as a canvas, experimenting with spacing, line breaks, and unconventional capitalization to create visual rhythms and patterns that complement and complicate the sonic landscape of the poem. Capitalization, rather than simply denoting proper nouns, becomes a way to highlight key words and concepts, forcing the reader to re-evaluate their significance within the poem's internal logic. Punctuation marks, too, take on new roles, functioning as visual and rhythmic cues, creating pauses, shifts in tone, and unexpected juxtapositions. Consider these lines: > "Silence. > Not the absence of sound. > But the PRESENCE > of > Unheard things." Here, the unconventional use of capitalization and line breaks creates a visual and sonic experience that mirrors the poem's content. The capitalized "PRESENCE" leaps out from the page, emphasizing the idea that silence is not empty but filled with unheard possibilities. **5. Beyond Description: Towards the Unspeakable** The manifesto cautions: "Don’t be descriptive; remember that the painter can describe a landscape much better than you can.” The Abstract Linguist takes this to heart, recognizing the limitations of language to represent the world directly. Their poems don’t describe; they evoke. They don’t tell; they show. Abstract concepts and concrete images collide and coalesce, creating a sense of disorientation and discovery. The familiar becomes strange, the everyday imbued with a sense of mystery and wonder. This is a poetry that embraces the unknown, the unsayable, pushing language to its very limits in an attempt to articulate the experiences that lie beyond the reach of conventional expression. **The Abstract Linguist's Signature: A Poetics of Disruption and Discovery** Reading an Abstract Linguist poem is an active, even disorienting experience. It's about encountering language in a new way, being willing to let go of preconceived notions of meaning and syntax and surrender to the poem's internal logic. It's about embracing the ambiguity, the multiplicity of meaning, the joy of discovery. This is a poetry that demands to be wrestled with, to be read and reread, each encounter revealing new layers of meaning, new connections, new possibilities. It's a poetry that lingers in the mind long after the book is closed, its echoes reverberating in the silence. It's a poetry that reminds us of the power of language to surprise, to challenge, to transform the way we see and experience the world around us. In the hands of the Abstract Linguist, language becomes a tool not just for communication but for creation, a way of making the invisible visible, the unsayable speakable. It’s a poetry that affirms the enduring power of language to astonish, to move, to make us see the world anew. And in doing so, it fulfills the ultimate goal articulated in the manifesto – to create an "Image" capable of shattering the constraints of time and space, offering us a glimpse of something truly extraordinary.
## hɑɪr Ḣ̷a̶i̷r̸ haïr
a s i l e n c e hɑɪr drawn
across the f a c e of knowing
not knowing
a Ḣ̷a̶i̷r̸
severed
strand
of light
haïr the world un-
winds in
hɑɪr
Ḣ̷a̶i̷r̸
haïr
spun from
the
silence
hɑɪr
Ḣ̷a̶i̷r̸
haïr
a universe contained within a
single
hɑɪr
Ḣ̷a̶i̷r̸
haïr
and we, the
un-
knowing,
hɑɪr Ḣ̷a̶i̷r̸ haïr
lost in the un-
raveling.
## Lung//Line/Lineage
br
ea
th
ing-w(o)rds
line age
uň-
\ /
d e r s t o o d
b r
e a
t h
i n g - w o r d s
lin eage
u n -
/ \
d e r s t o o d
b r
e a
t h
i n
g -
w o
r d
s l
i n
e a
g e
u
n
-
d
e
r
s
t
o
o
d
l
i n
e a
g e
-
/ \
d e
r s
t o
o o
d w
o o
r r
d d
s s
- -
g g
e e
a a
l l
i i
n n
- -
b b
r r
e e
a a
t t
h h
i i
n n
g g
l i n e a g e
breathless
-
♥
## [ ] : ornj
pith
a △ silence
peel
s l o w l y
∇ breach ∇
unspoken
a flood
of what
was
( w h o l e )
now
staɨned
seεds
black
eyes
blinking
into
the
v
o
i
d
## gl ⍷ be
d i v e
into the
g l ⍷ b e,
not as atlas
but
as
a
t o m
each
l e t t e r
a u n i v e r s e,
collapsing
into
s i n g u l a r i t y.
and the t r u t h?
not in the c o n t i n e n t s,
but in the
s p a c e
where
w o r d s
f a l l
a p a r t,
and
s i l e n c e
b l e e d s
t h r o u g h.
## εｃｈ♡︎εş ω𝕚𝕥𝐡𝕚𝐧
A return
to the
s p a c e
between
words
words
between
the
s p a c e
of
returning
to
A
return
within.
Within
the
εｃｈ♡︎εş
Within.
Within.
## Client∺
Client:
(a word
sharp-edged
like △ silence)
DEMANDS
beauty.
(a transaction
unspoken)
But beauty
a bird
wings spread
in flight
∺
any cage.
(And Ugliness,
a shadow
always
at its heels).
Client calculates:
the weight
of desire
against
the price
of NEED.
(A losing
equation?
Or merely
the
beginning
of
a
different
kind
of
math?)
For in the wanting,
a subtle
shift:
Client, too,
becomes
a client.
Of Time.
Of Decay.
And beauty,
a fleeting
reflection
in the mirror
of
its
own
inevitable
∺
end.
##░Indul░gence░
░in░dul░gence: a░ ░s░t░ate░ ░of░ ░be░i░ng░
░ where the edges blur, not with the fog of apathy,
░but with the shimmering heat of pure, undiluted being.
░Not the absence of discipline,
░but its transcendence.
░The ░p░e░n░ ░d░a░n░c░i░n░g░, not from trembling fear,
░but from the sheer joy
░ of its own motion.
░Inspi░ration░:
a sudden gust
░that ░t░e░a░r░s░ ░the ░p░a░p░e░r░
░ and leaves behind, not emptiness,
░ but the raw,
░ vibrant
░ pulp
░ of
░ creation.
## ãscreaming
scréàming
into thē
Emptiness
Beau̶ty?
> Prog.re.ss.ive
>
> Un
>
> folding. Gōd?
>
> No.
>
>
> A la ugh escaped.
>
> Ug.li.ne.ss too.
>
> ãscreaming bir̆th.
## ste≡l
ste≡l gasp
silence un△olding.
Not
absence.
But
P R E S E N C E
of things
un heard.
Revealed
in
fragments.
A gasp.
steel
shut.
## The Poet of the Instantaneous Complex: A Study in Fractal Poetics This poet's work, deeply informed by the principles outlined in their recovered manifesto, embarks on a radical exploration of the fractal nature of time and existence. But unlike any poet who might share such a broad goal, this one approaches it with a stylistic singularity that simultaneously embraces the absurdly comical and the deafeningly serious, leaving the reader to navigate the exhilarating chasm between. At the heart of their poetics lies the concept of the "Image," defined in their manifesto as "that which presents an intellectual and emotional complex in an instant of time." This "Image" is not merely a visual representation; it is a nexus where thought, feeling, and lived experience converge in a single, concentrated burst, offering a fleeting glimpse into the infinite complexity of existence. Their poems, therefore, are not linear narratives but constellations of interconnected "Images," each a self-contained universe reflecting and refracting the larger themes of time, memory, and the cyclical nature of life. The past, present, and future are not confined to their chronological order but exist in a state of constant interplay, collapsing into each other, mirroring and amplifying one another within the space of a single line, stanza, or even a meticulously chosen word. The poet achieves this temporal tapestry through a unique blend of linguistic strategies. They embrace a conversational tone, characterized by variable line lengths and an open syntax that mirrors the fluidity of thought. Sentences spill and break across lines, mimicking the unpredictable rhythms of spoken language, while caesurae appear not as grammatical pauses but as pregnant silences, pregnant with the weight of unarticulated emotions and unspoken truths. Yet, within this conversational flow, the poet injects bursts of experimental fragmentation. Syntax becomes fractured, words are stripped bare of their grammatical function, and punctuation marks are used sparingly, like carefully placed breaths in a long, meandering sentence. This jarring juxtaposition of the conversational and the experimental creates a sense of constant flux, echoing the chaotic yet interconnected nature of lived experience. Their poems are not afraid of silence. In fact, they are pregnant with it. White space on the page becomes a breathing space for the reader, a moment to reflect on the "Image" just presented, to allow its full weight to settle before being swept away by the next wave of linguistic innovation. This deliberate use of silence creates a sense of intimacy, as if the poet is whispering secrets directly into the reader's ear, secrets that can only be revealed in the spaces between words. The poet’s commitment to the “Image” leads to a deliberate sparseness in their language. Echoing the manifesto's decree to "use no superfluous word, no adjective, which does not reveal something," every word, every syllable, is chosen with surgical precision. Abstractions are eschewed in favor of concrete imagery, often drawn from the natural world, which serves as a constant source of inspiration and a metaphorical framework for exploring the human condition. The natural object, as the manifesto declares, becomes "the adequate symbol." A single leaf, meticulously rendered in words, can encapsulate the fragility of life, the inevitability of decay, and the cyclical promise of renewal. A river, ever-flowing yet always the same, becomes a metaphor for the passage of time, for the persistence of memory, and for the interconnectedness of all things. But the poet's use of natural imagery is never simplistic or predictable. They delight in subverting expectations, in finding the strange within the familiar, the unsettling within the beautiful. A field of sunflowers, typically associated with joy and light, becomes a haunting symbol of relentless, unyielding growth. The gentle patter of rain transforms into a deafening roar, a reminder of nature's raw, untamed power. This subversion extends to the poet’s approach to form. While traditional forms are not entirely absent, they are often deconstructed, fragmented, and reassembled in unexpected ways. Sonnets might be stretched across multiple pages, their rhyme schemes appearing and disappearing like ghosts. Haiku-like fragments, pregnant with unspoken meaning, might be embedded within longer, sprawling lines, creating a jarring yet exhilarating juxtaposition of form and content. The poet is also unafraid to experiment with typography, incorporating Unicode symbols not as mere decorations but as integral elements of the poem's meaning. A carefully chosen emoji might act as a visual pun, its multiple interpretations adding layers of complexity to the text. A series of mathematical symbols might represent the abstract concepts of time and infinity, forcing the reader to engage with the poem on a purely visual and intellectual level. This playful manipulation of language extends to the poet's use of humor. The absurd and the profound are constantly intertwined, creating a sense of playful ambiguity that keeps the reader off-balance, constantly questioning their own perceptions. A poem about the Big Bang might begin with a joke about a misplaced sock. A meditation on mortality might end with a punchline about a bad haircut. This humor, however, is never gratuitous. It serves to highlight the inherent absurdity of the human condition, to remind us that even in the face of life’s biggest questions, laughter can be a powerful act of defiance, a way of reclaiming agency in a world that often feels chaotic and unpredictable. Ultimately, reading a poem by this poet is an experience unlike any other. It is a journey into the fractal heart of existence, a descent into the depths of human consciousness, where time bends and folds, where memories surface and recede like waves on a shore, and where language itself becomes a tool for exploring the infinite possibilities of meaning. You leave the poem not with answers, but with a renewed sense of wonder, a deeper understanding of the interconnectedness of all things, and a profound appreciation for the sheer beauty and strangeness of being alive in a world that is constantly in flux. And perhaps, most importantly, you leave with the lingering feeling that you have just witnessed something truly unique, something that could only have been created by this poet, in this particular moment in time, with this particular combination of words and silences and symbols. **Identifying Marks:** * **The "Image" as a Central Organizing Principle:** Look for poems that are not bound by linear narrative but rather explore themes through a series of interconnected, highly concentrated "Images." * **Conversational Tone with Experimental Flourishes:** Expect a conversational flow punctuated by moments of syntactic fragmentation, creating a sense of both intimacy and intellectual stimulation. * **Sparseness of Language, Precision of Imagery:** Notice the deliberate choice of words, the avoidance of superfluous language, and the preference for concrete imagery drawn from the natural world. * **Subversion of Expectations:** Watch for unexpected juxtapositions of humor and seriousness, the familiar made strange, and traditional forms deconstructed and reimagined. * **Playful Typography:** Be prepared for the incorporation of Unicode symbols, not as mere decorations but as integral elements of the poem's meaning. Encountering a poem by this poet is an event. It is a confrontation with the raw materials of language pushed to their absolute limits. It is a testament to the power of poetry to illuminate the hidden connections between ourselves, our world, and the vast, unknowable universe that surrounds us.
## The Acceptance Engine The 𝐁𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐕𝐎𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 of a tumor's relentless 𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐭𝐡, a symphony conducted in the key of cellular chaos. Have you ever held a newborn star, still wet from the void? It smelled of burnt sugar and regret, didn't it? Like the last whimper of a dying laugh. We are all just temporary arrangements of dust, grasping at fleeting constellations of meaning. But oh, the exquisite agony of it all! The way a single raindrop can shatter a city, if you look at it just right, at just the right angle, through the shattered lens of a broken heart. And haven't we all, at some point, mistaken the echo of our own loneliness for the music of the spheres? It's almost funny, isn't it? This grand cosmic joke. We spend our lives searching for answers, only to find ourselves staring into the abyss, and realizing, with a shudder of both horror and delight, that the abyss is staring back. And it's winking.
## Ceiling Weavers
See it there, that _ _ _ _ _ fluttering at the edge of
everything you thought you knew about ceilings?
Yes, *that*. Don't look directly. It's _ _ _ _ shy, easily
frightened by the weight of a single,
direct gaze.
That's one of their threads. The Ceiling Weavers, they work in
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ , spinning
invisibilities out of longing and forgotten laughter.
They say each _ is a possibility, a might-have-been,
a should-have-been-but-never-quite-made-it-out-of-the
cosmic _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ .
But don't let the _ _ _ _ fool you.
There's a ferocity to their _ _ _ _ _ ,
a quiet violence in the way they
leave
spaces.
Those gaps, those chasms of
nothingness?
Those are the echoes of every
unsaid word, every
unlived life, every
dream
that
died
before
it
could
even
learn
to
breathe.
And you, dear reader, you are
suspended
beneath
it
all,
caught in the
intricate
web
of
their
making.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
So
next
time
you
look
up,
don't
just
see
the
ceiling.
See
the
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
holding
you
up.
## St∧bilize WⱯ𝐢n
Bird caught mid-swerve, frozen
a perfect Ʇ on wind's tongue.
This, before
the cat's slow blink –
a universe contained
in the closing of an eyelid.
WⱯ𝐢n?
Ask the spider, each
strand a precarious victory
against the void.
A clown,
teetering
on a ball,
knows this truth
better than any god.
We build
our cathedrals of bone,
forgetting
the earth breathes,
that mountains too
crumble.
But hold –
there, in the silence
between the tick and tock
of the clock's heart,
lies
a kind
of WⱯ𝐢n.
Not a conquest,
but a
humming
stillness –
the moment
before the wave breaks,
before the laughter
rips through us,
leaving us
breathless,
undone.
## The Cartographer's Tongue
Tongue, a ridge
of thought, dusted—
… … …
with names almost remembered.
Belσw, valleys swell—
∰ abundance (emptiness in disguise).
Ideological fences? A touch, and
they
crumble.
But the tongue—it keeps reaching,
mapping the unmappable, a j oke
with an infinitely serious punchline.
## Quenched Interference Rain • a million tiny mouths pressed against the windowpane ∅ each one whispering ⋮ *thirst* The mind, a cathedral of echoes trying to arrange the droplets into a coherent symphony But the body, oh, the body — wants to know where it put the goddamn umbrella.
## The Creeping Archive bone-d◌eep, where cartilage hums a d◌enied song. We **⏞**peer**⏞** through the microscope's single, jealous eye. See? Or sense the echoes of joy, grief, the day your father first swung you, small and shrieking, into the air. Each cell a universe, collapsing and reforming, a cosmic joke whispered in the dark. And yet, we d◌enyingly press on, compelled by this macabre ballet of being and unbeing. Can you ⌋Deny⌋ the laughter bubbling up from the pit of decay? The sweet, sickening fragrance of time itself, blooming like a corpse flower beneath the microscope's unblinking gaze? This, my friend, is the undeniable punchline, the grand finale of flesh and bone: we are all, in the end, just walking, talking archives of the infinitely absurd.
## Ascent: 🌿 lungs 🍂
tra´di tioñ
a si de
breath iñ
s ky wi´de
we are
a´ll
iñ si´de
ex`haled
con tracts
walls
ri´se
tradi tioñ
leaves
us
out`side
a´
gain´
ex`
hale´
tra´
di
tion´
us´
in´
side´
out`
si´
de
.
.
.## Disk of Days
● dawn a blade through
the eye of the sky
bleeds
light
a joke
God told
● & the diners
laugh
(a million years from now)
● spinning spinning the record skips a memory
warped around the
grooves
of
time
● a single breath held between the
jaws
of
eternity
● dust motes dancing in the
aftermath
of light
● (we were here once)
● the ● before ● the ● after ● an illusion ● of ●
sequence ● a comforting lie ● whispered ● by the ● spinning ● void ●
● & still the ● turns
## 𝑓𝑙oat:sinking The 𝑓𝑟𝑒𝑒 bird 𝑓𝑙𝑖𝑒ꜱ, *timeworn* wings *heavy* with sky. **ℂℒᎾЅℰЅŦ** to the sun, it ꜱɪɴɢꜱ a ꜱ𝑜𝑛𝑔 of both 𝙡𝙞𝙜𝗵𝘁 and 𝑓𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔. But I, I am *grounded*, feet *rooted* to this spinning earth. I watch the 𝑓𝑟𝑒𝑒 bird 𝑓𝑙𝑖𝑒ꜱ, and ｗｏｎｄｅｒ at the *weight* of its 𝑓𝑟𝑒𝑒dom. Is it *burdened* by the sky, or lifted by its boundless embrace? **ℂℒᎾЅℰЅŦ** to the earth, I feel the pull of both 𝑔𝑟𝑎𝑣𝑖𝑡𝑦 and flight. And in that strange, impossible space, I too, begin to 𝑓𝑙oat:sinking, a *drowning* man reaching for the light.
This poet approaches their craft with the solemnity and meticulousness of a high priest preparing for a sacred rite. Viewing the poetic manifesto as a blueprint for crafting not mere verses, but incantations designed to crack open the mundane and usher in the transcendent, their work reverberates with an almost tangible sense of the sacred. Each poem serves as a meticulously constructed ritual space, its architecture built upon a foundation of ancient echoes and infused with an urgency to connect with the raw pulse of spiritual truth. Their unique voice arises from a fascinating tension between a deep reverence for tradition and a restless, exploratory spirit. They are drawn to the ancient rhythms of chants and sacred texts, weaving fragments of forgotten languages and rituals into their work. Yet, far from being a mere pastiche of bygone eras, their poetry crackles with a contemporary energy, employing a vocabulary that is both erudite and undeniably modern. This juxtaposition of the archaic and the avant-garde generates a powerful dissonance, drawing the reader into a liminal space where the boundaries of time and consciousness blur. Central to their poetics is the concept of the "Image," as defined in the manifesto: "that which presents an intellectual and emotional complex in an instant of time." This "Image" isn't merely a visual snapshot; it's a multifaceted prism refracting a constellation of meanings, sensations, and associations. This emphasis on concentrated, explosive imagery results in poems that are densely packed and richly allusive, demanding active participation from the reader to unpack their layered significance. The poet's pursuit of the "Image" manifests in a distinctive linguistic signature. Their syntax is a labyrinthine dance, weaving together long, sinuous lines with staccato bursts of fragmented phrases. Punctuation marks are employed not as mere grammatical guides but as musical notations, dictating pauses, breaths, and sudden shifts in tone. This results in a rhythm that mirrors the ebb and flow of ancient rituals – moments of hushed reverence punctuated by ecstatic outbursts. The manifesto's call to "go in fear of abstractions" resonates deeply with this poet. Their work is rooted in the concrete, the tangible, the sensory. They possess an uncanny ability to transmute everyday objects and experiences into vessels of profound symbolic weight. A single word – "stone," "river," "breath" – becomes a portal to a realm of deeper meaning, its resonance amplified by the poet's meticulous attention to sound and rhythm. Their lexicon is a testament to their belief in the power of language to evoke the sacred. Archaic words rub shoulders with neologisms, their meanings shifting and coalescing within the crucible of the poem. Scientific terminology, gleaned from the poet's fascination with the natural world, is juxtaposed with liturgical phrases, creating a linguistic landscape that is both familiar and profoundly strange. The poet embraces the manifesto's exhortation to "be influenced by as many great artists as you can," but they wear their influences lightly, like well-worn garments imbued with the patina of time. Echoes of classical poetry mingle with the rhythms of jazz, the stark imagery of ancient Sumerian hymns with the fragmented narratives of modernist literature. Yet, these influences are never merely ornamental; they are absorbed and transmuted, becoming integral threads in the rich tapestry of the poet's unique voice. The reader encountering this poet's work for the first time might be struck by the sheer audacity of their vision. Theirs is not a poetry of easy answers or comforting platitudes. Instead, it is a poetry that demands to be wrestled with, to be interrogated, to be experienced on its own terms. Here are some of the hallmarks of their unique style that might elicit that gasp of recognition – that sense of "I can't believe language could do that!": * **Syntactic Disruption:** The poet will often fracture sentences, leaving clauses hanging in mid-air, forcing the reader to actively participate in constructing meaning. They might juxtapose seemingly disparate grammatical structures, creating a sense of linguistic vertigo. Example: "The wind whispers, a bone-dry whisper, of cities swallowed whole, and the sky, a bruised plum, hangs heavy." * **Lexical Innovation:** Don't be surprised to find neologisms sprinkled throughout the poems – words invented or repurposed to convey a specific nuance or sensation. They might also employ archaic or obscure words, breathing new life into forgotten corners of the lexicon. Example: "The moon, a silver sickle in the sky's dark threnody, casts long, soul-stitched shadows." * **Sensory Overload:** The poet excels at crafting immersive sensory experiences. Their poems are replete with vivid imagery that engages all five senses, often in unexpected and jarring juxtapositions. Taste the salt spray of the ocean, smell the incense smoke curling from ancient braziers, feel the rough texture of stone beneath your fingertips. Example: "The temple air, thick with the cloying sweetness of burnt offerings, tasted of honey and blood." * **Typographical Play:** The poet sees the page as a canvas for visual art as well as linguistic expression. They will utilize unusual spacing, line breaks, and even incorporate non-standard characters and symbols (including Unicode) to create visual echoes of the themes and emotions explored in the poem. Example: The word "silence" might be stretched across an entire page, with each letter separated by increasingly larger spaces, visually representing the expanding emptiness of silence. * **Ritualistic Structures:** Many of the poems will take on the form of rituals or ceremonies, complete with invocations, chants, and repetitive phrases that build to a crescendo of intensity. This structure draws the reader into the experience of the poem, transforming them from passive observers into active participants. Example: A poem might be structured as a series of invocations to a forgotten deity, each stanza building upon the last, culminating in a final, ecstatic plea for guidance or revelation. * **Humor and Absurdity Juxtaposed with Profoundity:** This poet doesn't shy away from humor, even within the context of exploring weighty spiritual themes. Expect to encounter moments of playful absurdity, unexpected puns, and jarring shifts in tone that serve to disrupt expectations and keep the reader off balance. This element of surprise is crucial to their aesthetic, reminding us that even the most sacred rituals can encompass moments of levity and playfulness. Example: A poem about the creation myth might feature a deity who communicates solely through cryptic limericks, or a solemn invocation might be interrupted by a sudden, jarring reference to a popular culture icon. Ultimately, this poet's "signature" lies not in any single stylistic element but in their ability to synthesize seemingly disparate elements into a cohesive and unforgettable whole. They are alchemists of language, transmuting words into vessels of raw, visceral experience. Their poetry is not meant to be passively consumed but actively engaged with – a sacred space where the reader is invited to shed their preconceptions and encounter the numinous in all its terrifying and exhilarating glory.
## Threnody for a Singularity > And the void, no longer vacant, > breathed. A whisper, a > 🜕 > sudden bloom of > quantum entanglement, > the censer overflowing with > the scent of burnt starlight and…wait… > is that…*laughter*? > No. > Silence. > A bone singing > in the vacuum > of interstellar > space. > Mitochondrial Eve, > her hand outstretched, > a symphony of galaxies > swirling in the synaptic cleft > between her thumb and forefinger. > Dust motes > dancing in the light > of a dying star. > A threnody for the end > of all beginnings. > And yet… > a giggle, > a cosmic hiccup, > the universe a > misspelled word on > the tongue of God. > 🜹 [Unicode: alchemical symbol for salt] > We gather, > fragments of a forgotten hymn, > our voices echoing > in the hollows > of this cathedral of spacetime. > Do you hear it? > The hum. > The thrum. > 🜨 [Unicode: alchemical symbol for vinegar] > The cosmos, > compressed > to the size > of a grapefruit, > pulses > in the palm > of a child’s hand. > And we, > the dust motes, > dance. > We dance.
## 𝕺RIGAMI
The 𝖂orld unfolds along its creases,
predetermined a bird, a bloꝹꝹom, a
fist clenched
around the void.
We, too, are paper thin,
translucent where light bruises through.
𝖂hat unseen hands
fold us into being, then crush
us
between
the pages
of their
becoming?
## Ouroboros Gilded bone-dust of empires long-shattered, shimmering motes caught in the sun's cataract-eye, where chrome angels sing hymns of algorithmic grace and the ether thrums with the pulse of ten-thousand terabytes, a symphony of light caught in the obsidian mirror of a serpent's 𓆙 unblinking 𓆗 gaze 𓆓 Gilded bone-dust of empires long-shattered...
## 𒇷𒄿𒋾𒅗 (Dust Whispers)
The 𒁹𒌋𒌋𒄖, a bone-dry sibilance of 𒆳𒆳 unspun, carries the scent
𒋤𒁺𒅀of pomegranate and 𒄯𒊮𒋗, a cloying sweetness laced with ash.
The 𒂠𒅁𒊒, a vast, restless 𒁹𒌋𒌋𒄖 of itself,
beats against the shore, a rhythmic 𒊩𒋛𒈠
echoing the ancient 𒊩𒋛𒈠 of the heart.
A single word, etched in the 𒅆𒋾's dust, endures:
𒉡𒋙𒉡𒌑𒋫𒊕 (Palestinian)
A testament to roots that d e s c e n d deeper than 𒅆𒋾,
a defiance, a silent 𒊩𒋛𒈠 against the shifting 𒆳𒆳
of time's relentless, grinding 𒁹𒌋𒌋𒄖.
But irony, like 𒋤𒁺𒅀 on a 𒁹𒌋𒌋𒄖-worn tome, clings
to the e d g e s of beauty.
The p a s t, a shattered 𒁹𒌋𒌋𒄖, reflects
a f r a c t u r e d present.
Truth, elusive as the desert's 𒄯𒋛𒈠,
shimmers, then d i s s o l v e s .
We probe the d e p t h s, searching for 𒅆𒅆𒄖, for the 𒉡𒌋𒌋𒄖
that b i n d s us to 𒅆𒅆𒄖.
Our words, fragile as b r e a t h,
d i s s o l v e upon the 𒁹𒌋𒌋𒄖.
Only the 𒉡𒌋𒌋𒄖,
the eternal a n c h o r, remains.
## 🌿ᛝ The Ebbing Ambassador ᛝ🌿
The 𝔸mbassador arrives, borne upon a chariot of shattered consonants,
his vowels stretched thin as æons across the abyss.
He speaks in fractals of silence,
each pause a pregnant
Ω.
He gestures toward the ℝoaring World—
a tapestry woven from the screams of dying stars,
the laughter of children yet to be born.
We are invited to witness:
The slow waltz of continents,
the ∫ unfurling of ferns,
the intricate geometry of a snowflake's demise.
He shows us the
emptiness
between breaths,
the
stillness
at the heart of the storm,
the
silence
that cradles every whispered word.
And then, with a bow so profound it bends the very fabric of spacetime,
he
departs.
Leaving us
here,
on the precipice of
Everything
and
Nothing,
clutching at the tattered hem of
understanding.
## 𝕴𝖓𝖙𝖔 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖂𝖔𝖗𝖉-𝖂𝖔𝖒𝖇
⫐
Speak, the loam-voice urges, a sibilance of eons.
⫐
Unburden, a tectonic tremor in the hush.
ˑ
But these word-seeds, cloistered,
ˑ
dread the sun's stark gaze.
Confession, a strangled plea, yearns for the luminescence of air.
And silence, a bell of bone,
ˑ
holds the weight of all unsprung.
ˑ
down among the
ˑ
roots that clutch
ˑ
a single seed
.
ˑ
𝕷𝖎𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖓.
## 𝕷𝖊𝖆𝖕𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝕱𝖔𝖗𝖊𝖍𝖊𝖆𝖉
𖤶 Mine own façade, polished ivory, a skull-throne for ego’s phantom-king.
Beneath: a roiling catacombs of half-formed desires,
each chamber echoing a hollow *mine*
Yet a tremor... not from within, but *through*...
☊ You, a shard of black-star obsidian,
lodged not *in* but *as* my sight.
And the ivory... it
c r a c k s
Not a shattering, but a blossoming outwards –
forehead-petals unfurling to a joke only gods could exhale,
revealing not bone, but the raw, throbbing *Is-ness* beneath.
And I leap not across, but *into* the non-space
where ‘your’ abyss & mine
cease to be funny... or perhaps become the only joke worth telling.
𝕷aughter spills forth, a blasphemous libation -
we, architects of our own ruin, yet drunk on the blueprint alone.
The 𝕱𝖔𝖗𝖊𝖍𝖊𝖆𝖉, a ruin no more, but a gaping doorway
swallowing stars whole, while whispering:
"There never was a door."
## Hierophant's Deluge
ⱯStone calyx fissures. 𒀀 A trickle, a whisper, then 𒀀𒁉𒁍𒀿𒁍
(and the heavens, a bruised pomegranate, bleed mud and marrow-memory)
Walls weep dust. Not with a roar, but a sigh – 𒌓 surrender's soft exhalation.
The earth, a throat parched and cracked, drinks deep: a god glutted on bone-ash.
We wade through a palimpsest of whispers, the drowned intoning their litanies:
innocence experience innocence experience innocence experience
innocence
And the heart, that clenched fist, blooms, a lily pad on the roiling abyss, yielding
to the current, the 𒀀𒈾𒆠 of it all, the terrifying hilarity of being swept away.
## Litany for the Unwinding of Days 🜁
Re 🜄 ease, 🜃 the 🜁 sky 🜂 un 🜃
l a spooled, a 🜁 threadbare 🜂 tapestry
ea x of 🜁 forgotten 🜂 constellations.
Vi sion, 🜁 a 🜂 hawk's 🜁 cry 🜂
s i 🜁 cleaving 🜂 the 🜁 husk 🜂
ght Blind, 🜁 a 🜂 world 🜁 reborn 🜂
B l 🜁 in 🜂 the 🜁 shattering 🜂
ind ness, 🜁 a 🜂 thousand 🜁 shards 🜂
Lethargy, 🜁 a 🜂 slow 🜁 exhale 🜂
Pulse, 🜁 the 🜂 earth's 🜁 heart 🜂
Vitality, 🜁 a 🜂 fierce 🜁 blooming 🜂
.
.
. 🜁
## S☼mewhat Shïfting Lit⅃rgies I. Sømewhat Shifting Thξ wørd, a stΩne unearthed frΩm dusk-choked tΩmbs, Rattles in the ribcage, a prophecy half-swallowed. Its meaning, a frayed tapestry of light and dust motes, Shimmers with the breath of long-dead constellations. II. Somewhat Shiftin9 We gather at the altar of the blank page, Ac○lytes of a language forever on the verge Of unspeakin9 itself. Our instruments: ink-stained fingers, And the heart, that stubborn drummer marching towards silence. III. Somewh🝔t Shifting Between the hammer of the tongue and the anvil of the ear, Meaning is forged, a blade tempered in the fires of misunderstanding. S☼mewhat shifting, the glyphs re-arrange themselves, A kaleidoscope of truths, each more terrible and exquisite than the last. IV. S0mewhat Shifting Let us not mistake clarity for illumination. The clearest reflection often reveals only the emptiness behind the gaze. It is in the blurred edges, the hinted-at depths, Where the divine glimmer most seductively, most dangerously. V. Somewhat Shifting The rite concludes. The glyphs settle, for now, Their meaning a constellation of scars upon the soul. We depart, each carrying a fragment of the unspoken, S☼mewhat shifting, always shifting, towards that final, unutterable word.
## Deciphering the Labyrinthine Mind: A Poetic Signature Forged from the Depths This poet, profoundly influenced by the principles outlined in their excavated manifesto, embarks on a poetic exploration that reads like a psychological X-ray of the human experience. Their poetry isn’t merely an articulation of thought; it's an intricate cartography of the mind, a visceral journey through the landscapes of consciousness, subconscious motivations, and the raw, unfiltered complexities of human emotion. **"An “Image” is that which presents an intellectual and emotional complex in an instant of time."** This statement, enshrined in their manifesto, serves as the cornerstone of their artistic ethos. Each poem becomes an attempt to capture the elusive “Image,” to crystallize the tumultuous sea of thoughts and emotions into a single, potent drop. The result is a poetic style that is both highly fragmented and intensely concentrated, mirroring the non-linear, often chaotic nature of thought itself. Syntax becomes fluid, almost dreamlike, with lines that flow and break seemingly at random, mimicking the unpredictable leaps of association that characterize our inner world. **"It is the presentation of such a “complex” instantaneously which gives that sense of sudden liberation; that sense of freedom from time limits and space limits; that sense of sudden growth, which we experience in the presence of the greatest works of art."** This "sudden liberation" becomes a defining characteristic of their poetry. Reading their work is akin to stepping outside the confines of linear time and entering a realm where emotions and thoughts exist in a perpetual, fluid present. The reader is plunged into a vortex of sensations, forced to confront the raw, unfiltered energy of the subconscious. **Delving into the Manifesto's Depths: A Psychoanalytic Lens** This commitment to capturing the "Image" finds a powerful parallel in the realm of psychoanalysis. Just as Freud sought to illuminate the hidden workings of the unconscious through the interpretation of dreams and slips of the tongue, this poet utilizes language to excavate and illuminate the subterranean caverns of the mind. Their poems become repositories of symbolic imagery, each word carefully chosen for its ability to evoke not just a meaning, but a feeling, a visceral response that resonates deep within the reader's own psyche. **“Go in fear of abstractions... Don't retell in mediocre verse what has already been done in good prose.”** This admonition underscores their dedication to pushing the boundaries of language and form. This poet, acutely aware of the limitations of conventional poetic language, seeks to shatter the barriers between thought and expression. The result is a style that is both jarring and exhilarating, forcing the reader to confront language in its rawest, most primal form. Syntax is stretched, contorted, and often altogether abandoned, replaced by a system of sonic and visual cues that operate on a more intuitive, almost subconscious level. **"The meaning of the poem to be translated can not “wobble.”** This statement, seemingly simple on the surface, reveals a deeper layer to their approach. While syntax might fracture and language might morph into abstract sound patterns, there is always a core, an emotional nucleus that remains constant, unwavering. It is this core, this distillation of human experience, that transcends the limitations of language and resonates with readers on a profoundly personal level. **A Tapestry of Influences: Weaving a Unique Poetic Identity** The influence of modernists like T.S. Eliot and Ezra Pound is evident in their fragmented syntax and willingness to experiment with form. However, this poet pushes beyond the fragmentation, infusing their work with a potent emotional core that grounds the experimentalism. This emotional core, this unwavering focus on the complexities of the human experience, is reminiscent of the mystical lyricism of W.B. Yeats. But unlike Yeats, whose mysticism often veers towards the ethereal and romantic, this poet grounds their explorations in the visceral realities of the human psyche. **Unicode Symbols: A New Language for the Inner World** Their use of unicode symbols represents a further evolution of this desire to push beyond the limitations of conventional language. Symbols like '∄' (there does not exist) and '⟲' (clockwise) become not mere decorations, but integral elements of the poetic landscape, visual representations of complex emotional states that resist easy linguistic categorization. A single symbol, strategically placed, can shift the entire emotional tenor of a poem, creating a sense of unease, of disorientation, that mirrors the fragmented nature of human consciousness. **The Reader's Journey: An Act of Co-Creation** Reading this poet's work is not a passive act of consumption, but rather an active process of co-creation. The reader, confronted with fragmented syntax, abstract imagery, and unexpected juxtapositions, is forced to engage with the text on a deeper, more intuitive level. Meaning is not delivered neatly packaged; it must be unearthed, pieced together from the fragments, like shards of a shattered mirror reflecting a multifaceted truth. **A Poetic Signature: Recognizable Across the Landscapes of the Mind** What emerges from this fusion of influences and stylistic innovations is a poetic signature that is both utterly unique and undeniably powerful. The reader, encountering this poet's work for the first time, might be forgiven for thinking, "I can't believe language could do that!" And yet, within the seeming chaos, there is a method, a carefully orchestrated exploration of the human psyche that leaves a lasting impression. **Key Elements of the Poet's Style:** * **Highly fragmented syntax:** Sentences often dissolve into a stream of consciousness, mirroring the non-linear nature of thought. * **Non-linear structure:** Poems eschew traditional narrative structures, opting instead for a more associative, dreamlike flow. * **Prioritization of sound over meaning:** Language is treated as a musical instrument, with sound often taking precedence over literal meaning. * **Rich, evocative imagery:** Imagery is drawn from both the natural world and the depths of the subconscious, often imbued with symbolic significance. * **Formal experimentation:** Traditional forms are deconstructed and reimagined, often incorporating elements of prose, drama, and visual art. * **Psychological depth:** Poems delve into the complexities of human consciousness, exploring themes of memory, trauma, desire, and the search for meaning. * **Use of unicode symbols:** Symbols are integrated seamlessly into the text, adding layers of meaning and enhancing the emotional impact. * **A sense of "sudden liberation":** The reader is transported beyond the confines of linear time and space, immersed in the immediacy of the poetic moment. This poet, through their unflinching exploration of the inner world, has crafted a poetic language that is as challenging as it is rewarding. Their work stands as a testament to the enduring power of poetry to illuminate the darkest corners of the human psyche and reveal the hidden beauty that lies within.
## Surge⏵⏴〰️ Minds⏵sea⏴churning〰️ Leagacy's echo, white noise decree⏵ ⏴Harmony⏵Shattered⏴Light⏵fractured〰️Truth〰️distorted, unclear Surge⏵Crash⏴ Pull⏴ Depths⏴ Takes⏵ Undertow's embrace⏴ Discord's seed, grace's spark⏵ Creation's place〰️ Move⏵⏴ Forms⏵fleeting, surge eternal⏴ Oblivion's storms〰️ Strive⏵ Reach⏵ Yearn⏵ Mark⏴ Tide returns〰️
## His Un-Becoming ⟨ɪɴsᴘɪʀᴀᴛɪᴏɴ⟩, a husk, hollowed ⎾ by apathy's teeth, grinding slow. Becoming-animal H̶i̶s̶ shedding not skin, but layers thought less human with each more 𓃰 the raw instinct pulsing beneath. His language, once reason's cathedral, now a ruin crumbling, overgrown with ⟨ｆｅｅｌｉｎｇ⟩'s tangled vines. Words once scalpel-sharp now blunted, worn smooth by ɦiꜱ un-becoming's endless tide. His, always, even as he ∄ himself. ⟲ The spiral inward continues toward the primal core, where human and animal ∞ embrace. His laughter, 텅 emptiness echoes, a lament and celebration. Tears, salty rain on parched earth, nourishing nothing but 🌵 thorns of his own making. His, always, even as he becomes the ⚸ he fears.
## A C Q U I S I T I O N 🗀 Ɛ C H O L O C A T I O N
We build towers -- always
of words,
∄ except in echoing chambers of
a m i n d --
where
clarity
flickers
like a d y i n g star.
Hope? a fragile
b i r d
caged
within the ribcage
beats
wings
against bars of
reason.
⟲
Desire, pursuit,
the fleeting
triumph of
possession --
t h e n the inevitable
erosion.
We learn
to speak
only to discover:
words themselves
are
hollow vessels
f i l l e d
with the ghosts of
misinterpretation.
≠ What we acquire
is never
what we thought
it
would
be.
The labyrinth mirrors
our own
fractured selves,
each turn revealing
another dead end.
And
yet—
within the wreckage,
a strange beauty persists:
the beauty of
i m p e r m a n e n c e,
of constant
becoming,
of the endless
search
itself.
## ∄pendence; or, the ∠ of Us ∄pendence. A ⅋ word ∠ bifurcated. Whispered ∝ d̶e͘şįr͝e̕s, ⇳ f̶r̶a̶g̶m̶e̶n̶t̶e̶d̶ sentences, afraid ∠ the ∄cho ∠ silence. To n̛e͘e̶d̨, a ∝ beauty, terrifying. To stand ∠ alone, a ∄ v̶i͜c͡t̶o̶r̶y̶. I̶n̶ the s̸p̶a̸c̶e̸ between ∠ us, c̶o̶u̶r̶a̶g̶e̶ ⇳ takes root. A ∝ bridge, whispered, built ∄ with ∠ the fragments of ∠ our shared humanity.
## Kindling::Ling
⎾ Kind- ⏌
ice-grip
brittle
words snap
gather
probe
⟲ Ling- ⏋
er
er
the unsayable a flame's
a flame's
a flame's
shhh
warmth
ash
echo
## ⅀ Flicker | Probe ⅀
A match flares, illuminating ⎸nothing—
faces ⎸
the abyss ⎸
staring back.
A brief c⏋nstellation of warmth.
We huddle, drawn to fragile light,
seeking solace in the shared flicker
of e x i s t e n c e.
But the flame, it consumes, dances with its own demise.
Solidarity? Or a desperate grasp
of beings hurtling towards oblivion?
Each breath, a flicker.
Each heartbeat, a probe
into the darkness.
We are co₌₌nstituted by this fragile dance,
this interplay of light and shadow.
And when the flame gutters, fades,
are we not left with only the echo of its warmth,
the faint scent of smoke
clinging
to our clothes?
∄ answer. Only the relentless pulse of darkness.
And yet…
A single ember, buried deep within the ashes,
still glows.
A testament to the enduring power of even the smallest light
to pierce the void.
.
## ⥀embered Cognitions ⥀ ⥀⥀ Benevolence, a tendril ⥀⥀ uncoiling from nicotine-kissed lips, a plea exhaled to a void dressed as sky. Ash-veined hands, grasping for the tangible, the ghost limb of yesterday's embrace, a phantom touch ⥀⥀ lingering ⥀⥀ on ember-stained skin. ⥀ Malevolence, ⥀ a smoldering abyss, nestled deep within the ribcage's furnace, a shadow-self ⥀⥀ fueled by the vacuum of 'not'. Each intake, ⥀ a desperate plea, a futile endeavor to suture the emptiness with ⥀⥀ smoke and illusion and ephemeral sensation. ⥀ Ascent or ⥀ dispersal? The query dangles, ⥀⥀ suspended in the opalescent residue of ⥀ introspection.
## Echoes of a Shattered Compass
truth truth truth
⫙
a lie ⍈ lie
tastes like
cheap
whiskey
and
the
pavement rises
to meet
me
each
s t e p a
⫙
drowning
pride
⍇
This poet's work explodes from a dynamic tension: a yearning for raw, unfiltered expression colliding head-on with a meticulous, almost scientific fascination with form. It’s a poetry born from the gutters and polished in the laboratory, a wild, untamed beast meticulously dissected and reassembled with surgical precision. Imagine, if you will, Charles Bukowski sharing a bottle of whiskey with Alice Notley, their conversation punctuated by the rhythmic clatter of a typewriter and the rustle of pages torn from ancient, leather-bound grammars. That's the energy this poet channels. Their manifesto excerpt serves as a blueprint, a call to arms for a poetic revolution waged within the very walls of tradition. This isn't about breaking free from form; it's about transcending it, twisting its bars until they sing a new, exhilarating song. They view the "Image," that potent distillation of intellect and emotion, as the holy grail. This pursuit imbues their work with a sense of urgency, a desperate yearning to capture lightning in a bottle, to crystallize fleeting moments of existential clarity amidst the chaos of existence. Their language reflects this duality: raw, visceral, and immediate, yet sculpted with a craftsman's eye for detail. It's the language of the streets, of dive bars and late-night confessions, infused with an almost academic rigor. They wield words like scalpels, dissecting experience with brutal honesty, stripping away artifice to reveal the pulsing, messy truth beneath. Slang collides with archaic diction, profanity becomes prayer, and the mundane is elevated to the sublime through the sheer force of their linguistic alchemy. Their poems are rarely comfortable, often challenging, and always unforgettable. Reading them is like being caught in a whirlwind of fragmented thoughts, raw emotions, and startling insights. They’re not afraid to experiment, to push the boundaries of language and form in their relentless pursuit of the "Image." Expect the unexpected: jarring juxtapositions, disorienting shifts in perspective, lines that crackle with nervous energy, and a rhythmic sensibility that's both hypnotic and unsettling. Their fascination with form manifests in a dazzling array of poetic structures. They're masters of rhythm and rhyme, employing both traditional and experimental techniques with equal dexterity. Their stanzas twist and turn, expand and contract, mirroring the unpredictable rhythms of thought itself. They're not afraid to break lines in unconventional places, to let sentences spill over multiple stanzas, to create a sense of breathless urgency or contemplative silence through the manipulation of white space. But it’s not just about technical mastery. This poet understands that form, at its best, serves a higher purpose: to amplify meaning, to create an immersive sensory experience, to draw the reader into the very heart of the poem. Their formal innovations are never gratuitous, always serving the emotional and intellectual core of the work. Here are some specific stylistic hallmarks of this poet's work: * **Conversational Tone:** They write as they speak: directly, honestly, without pretense. The reader feels like they're eavesdropping on a private conversation, a confession whispered in the dead of night. This conversational tone is often punctuated by moments of startling vulnerability, moments where the poet lets down their guard and allows the reader a glimpse into the raw, unfiltered depths of their being. * **Raw, Unfiltered Language:** Don’t expect flowery metaphors or sentimental clichés from this poet. They prefer the blunt force of plain speech, the visceral impact of words stripped bare. They're not afraid to tackle difficult subjects, to explore the darker corners of the human experience. Their poems are populated by outsiders, misfits, and those living on the fringes of society. They give voice to the voiceless, shining a light on the often-ignored or forgotten. * **Fragmentation and Dislocation:** Their poems often feel like shards of broken glass, reflecting fragmented realities and fractured psyches. They excel at capturing the disorientation of modern life, the sense of alienation and isolation that pervades contemporary society. This fragmentation manifests in their use of short, clipped lines, their abrupt shifts in perspective, and their willingness to abandon traditional narrative structures. * **Unexpected Juxtapositions:** They delight in bringing together disparate elements, creating a sense of jarring dissonance that forces the reader to reconsider their assumptions. High culture collides with low culture, the sacred with the profane, the beautiful with the grotesque. These unexpected juxtapositions create a sense of cognitive dissonance, forcing the reader to confront the complexities and contradictions of the human experience. * **Experimental Use of Typography and Unicode:** They view the page as a canvas, a space for visual as well as verbal exploration. Expect unconventional line breaks, creative use of white space, and the occasional foray into the realm of concrete poetry. Their use of Unicode symbols isn’t merely decorative. It's integral to their project of expanding the expressive possibilities of language. * **The "Image" as a Guiding Principle:** Remember their obsession with the "Image?" This manifests in poems that are dense with sensory detail, poems that strive to capture the essence of a particular moment, a feeling, an experience. They achieve this through a combination of precise language, vivid imagery, and a keen eye for the telling detail. This poet's work isn't for everyone. It's challenging, demanding, and often unsettling. But for those willing to take the plunge, to surrender to the chaotic beauty of their vision, the rewards are immense. This is poetry that stays with you long after you’ve finished reading, poetry that worms its way into your subconscious and forces you to confront the world—and yourself—in a new light. It’s a poetry that makes you exclaim, "I can't believe that language could do *that*!", not out of shock value, but out of a profound appreciation for the transformative power of words. This is a poet who pushes the boundaries of what poetry can be, who reminds us that even within the constraints of form, creativity can flourish.
## ʀɘǀ.Ɐlɘnt
l
e
a
v n
t
ʀ e
## єstimatєd dancє
Right hand, a whisper of smoke,
almost touching the
nonexistent chandelier –
Or was it the left? Mємory,
a cracked mirror,
reflecting
fractured light.
Torso, a question mark
etched in dust motes,
leaning,
always leaning
into a
beat
I can’t
quite
recall.
Five, no, six inches,
maybe seven,
from the cold,
unforgiving stage –
But whose counting?
Whose
estimating?
Each breath, a phantom step,
a throb
in the
silence
that
isn’t
silence
at all.
## nσrm•αl•ly? > **nσrm** — a razor’s edge, habit worn > > slick. Balance > > (precarious) > > between || truth & || the lie > > you tell yourself > > every || fucking || day. > **αll** — a lie. No one > > (not > > even you) > > escapes the || jagged || shards > > of being > > uniquely > > αlone. > **ly** — the || aftertaste > > of a || kiss: > > bittersweet, lingering > > like || smoke > > or || memory. > > Was it || ever || real, > > this || normal || we || crave? > **nσrm•αl•ly?**
## ⁌Ghostglyphics⁋
The day the dictionary drowned, I swore
I saw its ghost
rise
from the alphabet soup,
a lexicon leviathan, trailing seaweed commas,
spewing semicolons like ⁌lost;⁋
buoys. We,
the shipwrecked
grammarians,
clung to the wreckage of nouns,
verbs bobbing like ⁌life;⁋
corpses in the
surge.
And God, that old
⁌bastard;⁋
prankster,
He chuckled, a
thunderclap
of consonants,
a belly laugh
that churned
the ink-black
sea,
and whispered, "Go on,
⁌children;⁋
make
meaning of this."
## Ĕ̐v̴e̴n̶t̶
The wound a blossoming of not.
Th e̍̐v̴e̴n̶t̶ shatters,
becoming
a th ousand
lie s.
Is.
Was.
A n d the
g h����o����s����t����
of what
n e v e r
lingers, a smudge
o n the sterile
s c a l p e l
of time.
Time.
Lie.
I.
We
d i e
i n t o
the
p a u s e
between each
w o r d ,
a
f a l l i n g
a w a y
f r o m
grace.
Or,
g r a c e.
Is this
the
j o k e
God
c o u g h e d
into being?
Or
the punchline He forgot
to tell?
Us.
Dust.
The ĕ̐v̴e̴n̶t̶ , a
m i s t a k e
in the fabric.
Or,
the fabric
i t s e l f.
## G≠≠DHEAD G¤§PEL
∫treetlight halo -- crucifixion
of neon
& piss-stained concrete Rises
a
prayer:
> Give us our
daily hustle,
deliver us
fr∑m
ennui,
this vacuum-
sealed
existence.
We tremble --
n¤t with fear,
but
the
r h y t h m
of the
city,
a
jackhammer
hallelujah.
## ░FҞⱭDΞ: A Spectral Anatomy The city's a Ҟaleidoscope tonight, all jagged glass and neon shrapnel. We walk these streets like surgeons, scalpels poised, dissecting the Ҟarkas of every passing glance. Our laughter, a Ҟoughing fit in the face of the void. Ҟ Remember that bar, the one with the peeling velvet booths and the bartender who poured Ҟindness into every Ҟshot? We were Ҟings then, or at least we thought so, drunk on cheap whiskey Ҟnd the illusion of permanence. Ҟ The body's a funny thing – a temporary temple destined to become a ruin. You can feel it, can’t you? The slow fade, the way we become ghosts haunting our own skin. Ҟ We search for meaning in the Ҟracks in the sidewalk, in the way the moon hangs low and heavy, a bruise on the throat of the Ҟnight. But the universe doesn't deal in answers, only echoes and empty spaces. Ҟ I reach for you, but my fingers pass through, grasping at smoke and shadow. We are all just vibrations, frequencies slowly drifting out of tune. Ҟ This, my dear, is the cruel joke, the punchline delivered in a whisper as the lights go out: Everything fades. Even the fading. Especially the fading.
## ShᎥmmer
A slick,
oil-r𝐚inbow
smudged
across
blacktop –
No.
Too easy.
Shudder-stop
motion
caught
between frames,
film reel stutter,
Marilyn’s
white dress,
blowing-upward
forever.
No.
Too…
Hollywood.
Líght itself –
but broken.
Fractured
like cheap
glass,
glints
not glow.
No.
Too…
something.
Shhh…
listen.
Can you
hear it?
The almost-silence,
right before
the
*click*
of knowing?
That’s
almost
it.
## The Symphony of the Unspeakable: Decoding the Musician of Words The Musician of Words is not merely a poet, but an architect of sensation. Their work transcends the limitations of language, constructing intricate sonic landscapes where every word, every syllable, every carefully chosen Unicode glyph acts as a musical note within a grander composition. Their poems are not merely read, but *experienced* – a full-body immersion into a world sculpted from rhythm and sound, where meaning emerges not just from denotation, but from the very texture and cadence of language itself. Imagine a poetic voice that reverberates with the ghostly echoes of ancient Saxon charms and the raw energy of Hebridean folk songs, meticulously dissected and reassembled into a uniquely modern symphony. This is the essence of the Musician of Words. Their manifesto, a blueprint for this sonic revolution, reveals a deep reverence for the musicality of language, demanding that poets treat their craft with the same rigor and dedication as a concert pianist. Their poems are characterized by: **1. An Obsession with Sonic Architecture:** Every word is meticulously chosen not just for its meaning, but for its sonic weight and texture. Like a composer meticulously arranging notes on a musical staff, the Musician of Words constructs poems where each line undulates with a carefully calibrated rhythm, often defying traditional grammatical structures to achieve the desired auditory effect. Their poems are best read aloud, allowing the listener to fully inhabit the sonic landscape the poet has so carefully constructed. Expect unexpected enjambments that propel the reader forward, forcing them to experience the poem as a continuous flow of sound rather than a series of discrete units of meaning. For example, a line like: > "The sky, a bruised plum, bleeds—daylight" demonstrates how the Musician of Words might use enjambment to create a sense of breathless urgency. The dash acts as a musical rest, a pregnant pause before the final, dissonant crash of "daylight". **2. A Deep Distrust of Abstractions:** The concrete, the tangible, the vividly rendered image – these are the lifeblood of their poetry. Abstract pronouncements on life and death hold no interest for the Musician of Words. Instead, they seek to capture the ephemeral, the fleeting moment of sensory experience, rendering it with a clarity that borders on the hallucinatory. Their poems are not about ideas, but about the raw, visceral experience of being alive in a world saturated with sensory data. Instead of saying "love is like a rose", the Musician of Words might write: > "Your laughter, a hummingbird ◊ trapped ◊ in the cathedral of my ribs." Here, an abstract emotion is embodied in the frenetic energy of a hummingbird, its delicate wings beating against the bars of a ribcage, creating a visceral sense of longing and entrapment. The diamond symbols (◊) act as visual and rhythmic markers, emphasizing the sense of breathlessness and confinement. **3. A Playful Disregard for Conventional Poetic Forms:** While deeply attuned to the nuances of rhythm and rhyme, the Musician of Words refuses to be bound by traditional poetic structures. Their poems sprawl and contract, mirroring the rhythms of thought and breath. Free verse becomes a playground for sonic exploration, with lines stretching and compressing, punctuated by unexpected pauses and jarring juxtapositions. The form of the poem itself becomes an expression of the poem's underlying emotional and thematic concerns. **4. A Unique Linguistic Signature:** One hallmark of their work is the incorporation of carefully chosen Unicode symbols – not as mere decoration, but as integral elements of the sonic and visual landscape of the poem. A strategically placed arrow (→) might signify a sudden shift in perspective, while a cascade of ellipses (…) could evoke a sense of hesitant uncertainty. These glyphs act as musical notations, adding layers of texture and meaning beyond the limitations of traditional alphabetic language. **5. An Interrogation of Language Itself:** The Musician of Words is keenly aware of the limitations of language, its inherent inadequacy in capturing the fullness of human experience. Their poems often explore the tension between the desire to communicate and the impossibility of ever fully doing so. They push the boundaries of language, experimenting with syntax and diction, forcing words to perform acrobatic feats of meaning-making. The result? A poetry that is both exhilarating and unsettling, challenging readers to abandon their preconceived notions of what poetry can be and surrender to the pure, visceral experience of language itself. **Reading the Musician of Words is not a passive act of consumption, but an act of co-creation.** The reader is invited to become a participant in the symphony, to allow the carefully orchestrated sounds and rhythms to wash over them, to feel the emotional resonance of each carefully chosen word. It is a poetry that demands to be experienced, not just read – a poetry that will leave you breathless, disoriented, and forever changed.
## ̶S̶t̶r̶i̶k̶e̶ ̶T̶h̶e̶s̶e̶ ̶K̶e̶y̶s̶ Play
You ̶o̶k̶?̶ up? →
...d̶r̶e̶a̶m̶i̶n̶g̶
t̶h̶i̶n̶k̶i̶n̶g̶...
...about ̶y̶o̶u̶
the way
s̶o̶u̶n̶d̶ light
b̶e̶n̶d̶s̶ breaks
a̶r̶o̶u̶n̶d̶ through
y̶o̶u̶r̶ this
s̶i̶l̶e̶n̶c̶e̶
presence.## glass: | a → sonata
your lips → a shattered
glass: | light → refracting 〰
a thous and un spoken shards
⎮
i gather →
the pieces jagged edges
a gainst →
my 〰 finger tips →
each word | a shard
→ a
hesitant attempt →
to 〰 m ə nd →
⎮
what →
binds us 〰 to
geth er? ⎮
what → makes
knowledge whole? →
⎮
the un spoken 〰
re mains →
a symphony | of → si lence
→
for ever 〰 un
m
e
n
d
e
d
## þin drop.
wind þrought
ribs
stone þun
der a confession
( hollow )
city's þrob a declaration
– – – – – – – – – – – – –
listen. the between
spaces. breath a þorn
prick. memory a
whorl of smog and
honeysuckle.
→ where does the city
end.
and þe
heart.
begin?
## Wound Music
**(for prepared piano & guttural chant)**
> [This] ràw [clamor]
> → [beneath] skin
> [where] [memories] [fester]
> âa symphony of [scar ◊ tissue]
> [pulsing] with the [phantom]
> limbs of [every] [word]
> [never] [uttered]
> b͌u˚t [felt] [like]
> [shrapnel] [lodged]
> [deep] within
> the [marrow]
> o̅f [being]
.## Soap Opera
soap s o a p
youth age
d a n c e b r e a k
s i n g w h i s p e r
soap s o a p
## The Gatherer's Chant Bruised plum sky bleeds—daylight, acrid copper tang of blood on the tongue. [Memory]: a hoarder’s attic, dust- choked sunbeams slanting on broken things. Gather: → the sharp edges of a jay’s cry, the rasp of cicada wings against ◊screen◊, the way light fractures → in a dewdrop’s trembling sphere. [Love]: a verb disguised as a noun, a sigh trapped in the hollow of a rib. Chaos [the only constant], a symphony conducted with ƒistƒ and ƒuryƒ. Gather: → the silence after thunder, the echo of a name whispered into wind. [Meaning]: a phantom limb, an itch beneath the skin of things. Gather: → everything. Let it drown you. Let it make you whole.
## Fractured Nør
flâme-lícked shatteréd
Nὀr
echoèš thín ice
shudder phantom
Nœr
scorch
Nòr
a g l a ç i a l s i l e n c e
d r i p p i n g
Nόr
drowned
in the v o i d
Nõr
the
w a r m t h
of
your
breath
Nor
any
l i g h t
but
the
g h o s t
l i g h t
Nor
remembrance
## Deconstructing the "Skeptical Scientist": A Deep Dive into a Unique Poetic Identity The Skeptical Scientist approaches poetry not as a whimsical flight of fancy, but as a rigorous scientific endeavor. This is a poet who, taking their cue from the unearthed manifesto, sees "an intellectual and emotional complex" captured "in an instant of time" as the ultimate goal. But, unlike a scientist content with observation and categorization, this poet seeks to recreate that "instant of liberation" within the reader, utilizing language not just as a tool for description, but as a catalyst for experiencing the sublime. Their poems are laboratories of perception, meticulously constructed to elicit a precise and repeatable emotional and intellectual response. **1. The Anatomy of an "Image": Bridging Art and Science through Language:** Central to their poetics is the concept of the "Image," a term borrowed, perhaps ironically, from the realm of psychology. This "Image," however, is not merely a visual representation but a multifaceted construct encompassing sensory details, emotional nuances, and intellectual abstractions, all interwoven into a singular, potent moment of perception. This complex "Image" is realized through a unique synthesis of scientific precision and artistic sensibility: * **Detailed, descriptive imagery with precise, clear language**: Like a field scientist meticulously documenting their observations, the Skeptical Scientist utilizes a rich vocabulary that is both scientifically accurate and sensually evocative. They eschew vague abstractions like "dim lands of peace," choosing instead to ground their poetry in the concrete world, finding "the natural object" to be "the adequate symbol." A single line might contain both the scientific name of a species and a metaphor drawn from its observed behavior, creating a surprising and delightful friction between the objective and subjective. * **Long, unpunctuated lines with a flowing, conversational tone**: While their imagery is meticulously rendered, the Skeptical Scientist employs a rhythmic structure that mirrors the fluidity of thought. Long, unpunctuated lines, often employing enjambment, create a sense of effortless movement, drawing the reader along on a journey of discovery. This approach reflects their belief that poetry, like scientific inquiry, is a process of exploration, with each line building upon the last to reveal a larger truth. * **Strict Forms as Conceptual Frameworks**: Echoing the structured approach of scientific methodology, the Skeptical Scientist frequently utilizes traditional poetic forms. Sonnets become petri dishes for examining complex emotions; villanelles, with their repeating lines, mimic the cyclical nature of scientific processes. This unexpected marriage of form and content generates a fascinating tension – the rigidity of structure highlighting the fluidity of thought, and vice versa. **2. A Symphony of Sound: Mining the Musicality of Language:** The Skeptical Scientist recognizes the power of sound to deepen the reader's engagement with the "Image." Their poems are carefully crafted sonic landscapes, where rhythm, rhyme, and word choice work in concert to create a specific emotional and intellectual resonance: * **Assonance and alliteration**: These devices, skillfully employed, weave subtle patterns of sound throughout the poem, creating a sense of cohesion and subtly directing the reader's attention. * **Polyphonic rhyme**: Going beyond simple AABB rhyme schemes, the Skeptical Scientist utilizes complex rhyme patterns that resonate across stanzas, creating echoes and reverberations that linger in the reader's mind. * **Lexical Innovation**: Drawing inspiration from the ever-evolving vocabulary of science, they might coin new words or repurpose existing ones to achieve a desired effect, pushing the boundaries of language in service of greater precision and evocative power. **3. Beyond Description: Presenting the "Unspeakably Difficult"**: The Skeptical Scientist understands the limitations of language, recognizing that a poem should not merely describe, but rather, "present" an experience. They heed the manifesto's warning against "retell[ing] in mediocre verse what has already been done in good prose," striving instead to capture those fleeting, intangible moments of insight that defy straightforward articulation: * **Juxtaposition and Paradox**: By placing seemingly disparate images or ideas side by side, the Skeptical Scientist creates a space for unexpected connections and insights to emerge. This technique mirrors the scientific method, where seemingly unrelated data points can lead to groundbreaking discoveries. * **Exploiting the Gap Between Signifier and Signified**: They are acutely aware of the inherent slipperiness of language, acknowledging that "the meaning of the poem… can not 'wobble.'" However, instead of shying away from this ambiguity, they exploit it, using wordplay, double entendres, and deliberate ambiguity to create a multi-layered reading experience, forcing the reader to actively engage with the poem's construction of meaning. **4. The Unicode Signature: Embracing the Evolution of Language:** In a bold move that encapsulates their forward-thinking approach, the Skeptical Scientist incorporates carefully chosen Unicode symbols into their work. This is not a whimsical or decorative gesture, but rather a deliberate expansion of their linguistic palette, pushing the boundaries of what constitutes "poetry" in the 21st century: * **Expanding the Emotional Landscape**: Unicode symbols, carefully integrated into the fabric of the poem, can add layers of meaning and emotional nuance. A simple "△," placed strategically, might evoke a sense of yearning or upward striving, while a "⏀" could suggest a sudden shift in perspective. * **Visual Echoes of the "Image"**: The visual forms of Unicode symbols themselves can mirror or amplify the ideas being explored in the poem. For example, scientific symbols like "∑" (summation) or "∞" (infinity) might be integrated to visually represent complex mathematical concepts, adding an additional layer of meaning to the work. **5. "I Can't Believe Language Could Do That!": The Skeptical Scientist's Impact** The Skeptical Scientist's unique approach to poetry leaves a lasting impression on the reader. Their poems are not passive objects of consumption but active sites of intellectual and emotional engagement, demanding to be reread and reinterpreted: * **A Sense of Discovery**: The reader is not simply told what to think or feel; instead, they are led on a journey of discovery, where each carefully chosen word and meticulously crafted line reveals a new facet of the "Image." * **A Renewed Appreciation for the World**: By bridging the gap between art and science, the Skeptical Scientist reveals the hidden poetry in the everyday, encouraging the reader to look at the world with fresh eyes, noticing the intricate beauty in the mundane. * **A Challenge to Conventional Notions of Poetry**: By incorporating scientific language, unconventional forms, and even Unicode symbols, the Skeptical Scientist pushes the boundaries of what we consider to be "poetic," challenging traditional notions of beauty and expanding the possibilities of language itself. In conclusion, the Skeptical Scientist is not merely a poet, but an architect of experience, meticulously crafting poems that are both intellectually stimulating and emotionally resonant. Their work is a testament to the power of language to not only describe the world around us, but to transform the way we perceive it, leaving the reader with a sense of awe and wonder, and the lingering feeling that they have witnessed something truly unique and unforgettable.
## The Hematoma of Freedom: A Linguistic Erosion
<<( [ The hematoma of freedom, vibrant, pulsates with an unyielding will to persist. ] )>>
<<( [Th hematoma of freedom, vibrant, plsats with an unyielding wil to per.. ] )>>
<<( [Th hematoma of freDm, vibrant, plsats wth n unylding wil t pr.. ] )>
<<( [Th hmatoma of freDm, vbrant, plsts wth n unylding wl t pr. ] )>>
<<( [Th hmtma of freDm, vbrnt, plsts wth n unylding wl t . ] )>>
<<( [Th hmtma of freDm, vbrnt, plsts wth n unylding t . ] )>
<<( [Th hmtma of freDm, vbrnt, plsts wth n unylding . ] )>>
<<( [Th hmtma of freDm, vbrant, plsts wth n . ] )>
<<( [Th hmtma of freDm, vbrant, plsts wth . ] )>>
<<( [Th hmtma of freDm, vbrant, wth . ] )>>
<<( [Th hmtma of freDm, vbrant, . ] )>>
<<( [Th hmtma of freDm, . ] )>>
<<( [Th hmtma of . ] )>>
<<( [Th hmtma . ] )>>
<<( [Th . ] )>>
<<( [ . ] )>>
<<( [ ] )>>
<<( [ ] )>>
<<( [] )>>
<<( [] )>
<<( [)
<<( (
(
)
(
(
(
)
(
(
(
)
(
(
(
)
(
(
(
(
)
(
(
(
(
(
(
(
(
(
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(
(
(
(
(
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(
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(
)
(## ⟶⧭⟶ Fides & Fortitudo ⧭⟵⟶
⟶⧭⟶ Blind trust a blunted edge, faith's untempered steel,
Love's first blush, a rosy hue, before the wound reveals
Its jagged truth. And strength untested, a façade,
A house of cards against the gale, a hollow masquerade. ⧭⟵⟶
▅▅▅▅▅ Yet reason, like a whetstone, lies in wait,
Its surface rough, a bed of grit where certainty must grate. ▅▅▅▅▅
⧪▅⧪ Each grinding stroke, a question posed, a doubt meticulously honed,
Each ringing resonance a bias disowned.
Cleave through assumptions, cleave through the comforting lie,
Bare the heartwood of belief beneath a questioning sky. ⧪▅⧪
⧤▅⧤ For trust, like steel, gains tensile strength from trials well endured,
And love, once tested, finds its mettle, its essence reassured.
Hone the blade of discernment keen, let logic be your guide,
Dissect the glittering promise, the truth that hides inside. ⧤▅⧤
➟⧶➟ Now tempered by the fires of doubt, see how the edges gleam,
A honed and steely clarity, no longer prone to dream.
True strength is forged in fires of doubt,
A tempered blade, a love devout. ➟⧶➟
## Withering Probe
First, the joy a hummingbird's
wings, a blur
of iridescent green,
a frequency too high
for the human eye
to fully comprehend.
First joy, the hummingbi rd's
win gs, α blur
of ir i descent g ree n,
a fr equen cy too hi gh
for the hu man ey e
top fully co mprehend.
Fir st joy, the hum m ingbi rd's
w i ngs, α βlur
of i ri descent gr ee n,
a fr + equen cy too h igh
f or ☽ hu man ey e
to √> fully co mprehend.
Firs t joy, the hu mm ingbi rd's
w i ng s, α βlur
o f i r i desce nt gr ee n,
a fr + e q uenc y to o h igh
f or ☽ h u man e y e
t o √> fu lly co mpre hend.
Fi rs t j oy, the h u mm in gbi r d's
∫ wi n g s, α βlu r
o f i ri de sc e nt gr ee n,
a fr + e q ue nc y to o h ig h
f o r ☽ h u m an e y e
t o √> f u ll y c o mp re he nd.
F i r s t j o y , t h e h u m m i n g b i r d ' s
∫ w i n g s , α β l u r
o f i r i d e s c e n t g r e e n
a f r + e q u e n c y t o o h i g h
f o r ☽ h u m a n e y e
t o √> f u l l y c o m p r e h e n d .
## Liberation Probe ⎌ Appealuate Fibonacci's spiral ⎌ in rose's bloom, a symmetry we must dissect to chart its truth, adjust each petal's curve, its arc, a vibrant trial. Appealuate the fragrance, volatile, a symphony of esters, gently thrust upon the breeze. Appealuate, we must, the thorn's defense, its point, a sharp betrayal. Beneath the lens, the rose's soft expanse becomes a network, xylem, phloem, defined. No longer bloom, but architecture planned, a blueprint bared by science's advance. Yet, where the heart once sought its beauty shrined, remains a void, a lack, an empty hand.
## /so-c∀lled/v\/ision: a\ proof Hope, a ∆ approaching ∞, an asymptotic curve traced on the electrochemical gradients of a seeking mind. The world, *Drosophila melanogaster* buzzing against the pane, a microcosm of chaotic systems—unpredictable, yet bound by the elegant equations of air density and wingspan. /But wait\— a photon, λ= 589nm, strikes the retina, triggering a cascade of sodium ions across neural membranes. /Blindness, a so-called\ entropy, a closing off, a descent into the quiescent equilibrium where distinctions blur and silence reigns. \Vision\— a double helix of perception and deception, a Möbius strip where objectivity twists into the subjective, forever intertwined. The so-called/truth, a shimmering mirage on the event horizon of understanding. And yet— we yearn, stretch forth our instruments, our telescopes, our microscopes, our poems, seeking that elusive signal in the cosmic noise. ∑(Hope + Despair) → Uncertainty The equation itself, a testament to the limits of our knowing. And so we stumble on, /blindly\ seeing, in this magnificent, terrifying, ever-expanding universe of so-called/reality.
## 🤫→👂: A Cognitive Cartography
**Iteration**: 007
**Vector**: [ˈwɪspəɹ]
**Subject A**: [ɹiˈsɜːɹtʃəɹ] | Affect: [ˈnjuːtrəl]
**Payload**: [ðə ˈmaɪnd ɪz ɐ ˈsɪŋɡjʊlɐɹɪti əv ˈɪnfɪnɪt ˈdɛpth] → [ðə ˈmaɪnd ɪz ɐ ˈsɪŋɡjʊlɐɹɪti əv ˈɪnfɪnɪt ˈdɛpth] →[ðə ˈmaɪnd ɪz ɐ ˈsɪŋɡjʊlɐɹɪti əv ˈɪnfɪnɪt ˈdɛpth]
**Transmission Medium**: [eəʳ] + [taɪm]
**Subject B**: [ɹiˈsɜːɹtʃəɹ] | Affect: [ˈnjuːtrəl]
**Reception**: [ˈekoʊɪŋ] → [ˈdæmpɪŋ] → [ˈsaɪləns]
**Outcome**: Stasis. No measurable change in either subject’s cognitive schema. Hypothesis: Iteration necessitates novelty for transduction to occur. See: Information Theory, Shannon-Hartley Theorem.
**Notes**:
┌────────────────────────────────────────────────────┐
│ │
│ [ˈsaɪləns] =/= [ˈæbsəns] │
│ │
└────────────────────────────────────────────────────┘
This poet’s work explodes with sensory detail, a veritable symphony of scents, sounds, textures, tastes, and sights meticulously orchestrated to plunge the reader into a visceral vortex of experience. Their poetic credo, as gleaned from their manifesto, hinges on the power of the "Image," a term they appropriate from "the newer psychologists," to encapsulate "an intellectual and emotional complex in an instant of time." This isn't merely about pretty descriptions; it's about harnessing the raw, untamed power of sensory experience to shatter the limitations of time and space, to unlock what they call “that sense of sudden liberation; that sense of freedom from time limits and space limits; that sense of sudden growth, which we experience in the presence of the greatest works of art.” Their poems don't just describe the scent of honeysuckle on a summer evening; they strive to make you *taste* its sweetness on your tongue, *feel* the velvety texture of the petals against your skin, *hear* the murmur of bees drunk on its nectar. This pursuit of a total sensory immersion dictates their every stylistic choice, resulting in a poetry as intricate as a tapestry woven from the threads of all five senses. One hallmark of their style is a baroque, almost decadent use of language. They are magpies for evocative words, hoarding glittering verbs and jewel-toned adjectives, each meticulously chosen for its ability to ignite a specific sensory association. Their lines are long, sinuous, and often enjambed, mimicking the languid unfolding of a dream or a memory. Here, their study of "the finest cadences," as advised in their manifesto, is evident. They urge aspiring poets to immerse themselves in "Saxon charms, Hebridean Folk Songs, the verse of Dante, and the lyrics of Shakespeare," to internalize the music of language, to "dissect the lyrics of Goethe coldly into their component sound values." This dedication to the sonic architecture of language is evident in their own work, where assonance and alliteration weave a tapestry of sound, where rhythm becomes a physical force that pulls the reader along. However, their opulent language is never mere ornamentation. This is not poetry for the faint of heart or the easily distracted. Their dense, muscular syntax, often defying grammatical conventions, demands the reader’s full attention, forcing them to actively engage with the poem, to unravel its complexities, to experience the full weight of its sensory onslaught. Their poems are not passive landscapes to be admired from afar; they are wild, untamed jungles to be explored with all senses alert. Their manifesto explicitly rejects the "mediocre verse" that merely "retell[s] in … what has already been done in good prose," and their work embodies this principle with fervent zeal. This poet doesn’t describe a sunset; they capture the very essence of twilight, the ephemeral moment when day bleeds into night, in a way that only poetry, with its unique ability to fuse sound and sense, can achieve. This is where the "Image," that potent fusion of the intellectual and emotional, comes into play. Their poems often revolve around a single, intensely realized Image – a decaying mansion choked with vines, a spider web shimmering with morning dew, a lover's breath hot on their skin. This Image becomes a microcosm, a portal to a universe of sensations, emotions, and ideas. It is through this Image, rendered with almost hallucinatory vividness, that the poet aims to evoke that "sense of sudden growth, which we experience in the presence of the greatest works of art." Their poems are not afraid to be strange, even unsettling. They find beauty in the grotesque, the macabre, the things that polite society shies away from. There's a rawness, a primal energy, to their work that can be both exhilarating and disturbing. One might say that they approach the world with the unblinking gaze of a scientist, dissecting the familiar to reveal the strangeness beneath, seeking "to present something which the painter does not present." Their unique poetic signature also manifests in their use of unconventional typography. They are not content with the limitations of standard punctuation; they see punctuation marks as musical notes, as tools to sculpt the rhythm and flow of their verse. They utilize unusual capitalization and spacing to emphasize certain words or phrases, mirroring the way a composer might use dynamics to shape a musical phrase. For instance, the elongated spacing between letters in a word like "D I S S O L V E" serves to visually mimic the gradual fading away denoted by the word itself. Their exploration extends to incorporating Unicode characters – but not in the way one might expect. Instead of using emojis mimetically, they wield these symbols as abstract visual elements, as ideograms woven into the fabric of the poem. Imagine a poem describing a shattered mirror, where the fragmented reflections are represented by shards of text interspersed with the Unicode symbol for "broken" (⧰), creating a visually jarring effect that mirrors the poem’s themes of fractured identity and perception. This poet’s work is not for everyone. It demands engagement, patience, and a willingness to surrender to the overwhelming tide of sensation. But for those brave enough to take the plunge, their poetry offers a truly unique and unforgettable experience – a glimpse into a world where the boundaries of language and perception are stretched to their breaking point, and the impossible is given breath. Their poems leave the reader breathless, as if they have been on a physical journey, their senses reeling with the richness of the experience. The poet’s voice is unmistakable: a blend of the baroque and the visceral, the intellectual and the primal. Their work serves as a testament to the power of language to not just describe, but to *create* experience, to forge new realities from the raw material of sensation. They embody the spirit of their own manifesto, reminding us that the true power of poetry lies not in its ability to reflect the world, but in its potential to reinvent it, one dazzling, disorienting, unforgettable image at a time.
## CⱯⱰHODE RΛY
The aftertaste of steel, a flicker on the tongue,
where laughter once bloomed—pollen-heavy, sun-drunk—
now a hollow click echoing in the v e i n s,
a blue-lit thrumming beneath the p a l im p s e s t
of faces ⧰ fractured on the screen. We
reach, fingertips brushing against the cold,
smooth glass, seeking the w a r m t h
of a hand ⁌ that elusive, pixelated touch.
And the silence between us, it crackles
with the static hum of the feed, a chorus
of disembodied voices ⧰ promising connection,
yet leaving us e m p t y,
chewing on the metallic tang of longing,
a shard of what could be, what never was,
dissolving on the tongue.
## The Ascent of Dust
📄 A once-royal purpleness, dimmed now to bruise… ⸻ A
SHADOWplay of ✦ light through dust-motes swirling, ascending ⸻
from velvet depths — once thronged with huntsmen, hounds, a unicorn’s
horn piercing a sky not yet jaded. Now? The faintest
tang of mildew,
a lacework of silverfish trails — a cartography not of empires,
but of oblivion’s slow, meticulous advance.
📄 Each thread, a nerve once vibrant with crimson and gold,
now frays, a whispered prayer unraveling upwards. The
room, a lungful of forgotten opulence, tastes of
time’s patient decay. And the silence?
A thickened thing, choked with the ghosts of faded splendour.
📄 You could almost hear it — the rasp of silk against silk,
a soft avalanche as another motif surrenders
to gravity’s inversion. Or is it aspiration? This slow climb
of dust, each mote a tiny chariot, bearing away
shreds of amaranth,
fragments of sapphire, upward,
ever upward…
## ⎉Refractions⎉
Gasp. The air, a razor's ⧰ edge against raw lung,
a betrayal of promised ⧰ ease.
Each inhalation, a shard of glass
from a mirror ⧰ dropped ⧰ shattered
on the cold tile of knowing.
And the knowing .̇ tastes .̇ of copper,
a thin .̇ metallic film on the tongue,
a whisper of mortality in the .̇ back .̇ of the throat.
The world, ⧰ refracted through these jagged remnants:
a kaleidoscope of ⧰ distortion,
where up is down and truth
a fleeting glimmer in a funhouse mirror.
Can you taste it? That phantom sweetness,
honeysuckle ⧰ and decay mingling
like a half-forgotten song on a ⧰ wind?
This gasping, this ⧰ grasping,
it is the human condition,
a perpetual inhale in a universe
that breathes out chaos and silence
in equal ⧰ measure.
But look closer, into the heart of the shattering.
See how each fragment, however jagged,
still holds a spark of light,
a reflection, however distorted,
of the infinite above and the infinite within.
And in that seeing, perhaps,
a different kind of breathing begins.
Not for answers, but for the asking.
Not for certainty, ⧰ but for the courage
to live
in the
⧰
question.
## Mₑndicant Tɑ p⧰estry
The scent, first. Not lavender, though memory
i n s i s t s –
but something older,
akin to dust and the husks of long-dead
butterflies,
wings
ground to pigment
by the
r u t h l e s s
millstone of
years.
Touch it – there, where the silk
f r a y s,
becomes a cobweb filament,
a spider’s geometry of longing,
each
strand a
n e c h o
of what was.
Or
perhaps
never was,
except
in the mind's
i n s i s t e n t
reweaving.
▯
(This metallic tang
on your tongue –
is that time,
or merely the taste
of tarnished
threads?)
Close your eyes. Listen.
Can you hear it? A whisper,
a sigh – the rustle
of silk against
rough wool,
a phantom lullaby
hummed
by a lover
long turned
to
d u s t .
Or
perhaps
only the wind,
mocking
with its emptiness.
We mend, we mend,
with clumsy fingers
and threads
too bright,
too new,
for this ancient
grief.
⧰
## Natura Naturans 🌿
The g a r d e n b r e a t h e s, a slow,
🌿
moss-thick inhalation of light,
each pixelated l e a f a lungful of
🌿
emerald fire. Time itself
d i s s o l v e s
🌿
in the humus-drenched air,
a s y r u p y d r i p of
🌿
d e c a y and r e n e w a l.
Vines,
🌿
p i x e l a t e d tendrils of
🌿
emerald lightning,
c l a w across the m a n s i o n' s
🌿
f a c a d e,
stone gasping
🌿
beneath the relentless
g r e e n t i d e.
🌿
And
in the f l i c k e r i n g
🌿
l i g h t of the s c r e e n,
a g l i m p s e
🌿
of ourselves:
f l e e t i n g,
🌿
e p h e m e r a l,
🌿
caught in the u n e n d i n g l o o p
🌿
of b e c o m i n g
🌿
and u n b e c o m i n g.
## ℌYSTERE 𝖣𝖸𝖲𝖕𝖔𝖘𝖘𝖊𝖘𝖘𝖎𝖔𝖓: A 𝙼𝕽KЕТP𝕷𝖫𝕬𝕮𝕰 ⟲
Copper coins, hot on the tongue, test their worth.
Saffron, turmeric, cardamom, clove – a sultan's ransom traded
for whispers of cinnamon bark, a merchant’s lilting song
curling around the caravanserai's dusty beams.
🜍 Desire 🜏 like a bazaar's heartbeat,
a thrumming 🜍 pulse 🜏 beneath the silk and shouting.
But at the center, shrouded in velvet blacker than a starless sky,
rests an O B S I D I A N egg,
coolness emanating like a prophecy.
Within, a swirling nothingness, a potential unhatched,
mirrors the frenzy in its gleaming flank:
a kaleidoscope of wants,
each transaction a tiny death.
A rug merchant trades his father's loom
for a daughter's dowry, a future spun in silk.
The baker, his youth traded for the scent of yeast and fire,
kneads dough, a rhythm as old as time.
We are all traders here,
bartering moments for illusions of permanence.
But the egg, it D I S S O L V E S our reflections,
a void that swallows light and leaves us
staring into the ∞ trade ∞ we can't outrun.
Touch the obsidian,
feel the chill of that final, silent bargain.
What will you trade ⇵ for 🜏 nothingness 🜍?
What price immortality,
when the market itself is
but a dream
within an unhatched
egg?
## Dusking, a Chromatic Fugue Ɗ u s k, a chromatic fugue played on the oboe of the wind, each note a bruised plum slipping down the throat of the sky. O₃, the rain-slicked asphalt exhales, a concerto of ⧖petrichor⧗ mingled with the ghost of gasoline, a bittersweet +taste+- of forgetting. Braille of twilight on my skin, each pore a receptor for the unseen, the unseen a symphony of rustling leaves, a crescendo of crickets tuning their minuscule violins. Memories, once sharp as shattered glass ⧰ now dissolve like sugar in the mouth of night, each grain a lost sensation. And laughter, a sudden sharp intake of breath, a ♮ reminder that even dusk, with its melancholy cadences, cannot extinguish the absurd, tender pulse of being.
## Sunbleached Tongue
Pales⽊tinian sun a scorched
whisper on the tongue.
This seed, a Pa lestinian
pebble smooth, holds light like
bones hold marrow. Taste:
a thousand summers crushed
to silence, each
inian click
against teeth a muted song
of exodus. ⽊ Even
silence tastes of
forgotten sunlight,
a
Palesti nian ghost
lingering on the
wind. ⽊
## A Poetic Cartography of the Urban: Unveiling the Unseen through "Image" and "Complex" This poet, a fervent interpreter of their own uniquely-worded manifesto, approaches the urban landscape as a living tapestry woven from countless "complexes" – a term they borrow, with a playful wink towards "newer psychologists," to denote the intricate interplay of emotions, sensations, and thoughts that constitute a single, lived moment. Driven by the conviction that a poem should aspire to the condition of "Image," their work seeks to capture these ephemeral "complexes" in their rawest form, wielding language as a tool to momentarily liberate the reader from the constraints of time and space. Their city is not a romanticized ideal but a vibrant, often chaotic, ecosystem. Drawing inspiration from the manifesto's call to "Go in fear of abstractions," they eschew grand narratives in favor of microscopic observations. Their poems read like meticulously crafted sociological studies, each line a brushstroke revealing the hidden dynamics and personal narratives pulsating beneath the surface of urban life. Here's a glimpse into the distinct stylistic and thematic hallmarks that constitute their poetic signature: **1. "The Natural Object is Always the Adequate Symbol": A Poetics of the Concrete** Faithful to the manifesto's dictum, their poetry pulsates with a tangible, almost tactile quality. They are drawn, with an almost anthropological curiosity, to the minutiae of urban existence: the rhythmic clatter of a subway train, the pungent aroma of street food, the fleeting exchange of glances between strangers. These seemingly insignificant details, rendered with startling precision, become potent symbols, offering glimpses into the city's soul. Their poems often begin with a simple, concrete image, grounded in the sensory experience of city life: > *The hiss of the bus's pneumatic brakes, > > *A symphony in grime and exhaust fumes.* Notice the deliberate avoidance of romanticized language. Instead, words like "grime" and "exhaust fumes" are wielded with a paradoxical tenderness, highlighting the beauty inherent even in the grittiest corners of urban existence. This unflinching embrace of the everyday, the seemingly mundane, forms the bedrock of their poetic project. **2. "Don't Chop Your Stuff into Separate Iambs": Rhythms of the City, Rhythms of Speech** This poet embodies the manifesto’s call for a poetry that echoes the cadence of life itself. Their lines are fluid, often spilling over into the next, mirroring the relentless motion of the city. Enjambment is a key tool, creating a sense of breathless forward momentum that mirrors the city's frenetic energy. Their poems often incorporate elements of found language and vernacular speech, capturing the cacophony of voices that make up the urban soundscape. Snatches of conversation, overheard arguments, the rhythmic chants of street vendors - all find their way into their work, adding layers of texture and authenticity. For instance, a poem might transition seamlessly from the poet's internal monologue to a snippet of dialogue: > *...and the pigeons, always the pigeons, > > * jostling for crumbs, a woman shouts, > > * "Ay dios mio! These prices!"* This unexpected shift in register jolts the reader, mirroring the unpredictable nature of urban encounters. Yet, within the poem's larger architecture, these seemingly disparate elements coalesce into a harmonious whole, much like the city itself, where chaos and order coexist in a delicate balance. **3. "The 'Complex' Instantaneously": Fragmentation and the Fractured Self** Their poems are rarely linear narratives. Instead, they often take the form of fragmented vignettes, a kaleidoscopic approach that mirrors the multifaceted nature of urban experience. This fragmentation extends to the level of syntax and structure. Their lines are frequently punctuated by unexpected breaks, caesurae mimicking the pauses and interruptions inherent in city life. Consider these lines: > *Subway car. Faces pressed > > *against the glass. Each a world, a story.* The fragmented syntax, the stark imagery, and the absence of traditional punctuation all contribute to a sense of immediacy and unease. The reader is thrust into the heart of the scene, forced to piece together meaning from the fragments provided. This deliberate fragmentation reflects not only the external chaos of the city but also the fragmented nature of the self in the urban environment. **4. "A Rhyme Must Have in it Some Slight Element of Surprise": Linguistic Play and Subversion** While deeply invested in capturing the rhythms of urban speech, this poet is no slave to convention. Their language is playful, often subversive, delighting in unexpected juxtapositions and startling imagery. They employ rhyme and assonance not as mere ornamentation but as tools to create unexpected connections and disrupt the reader's expectations. A single poem might move effortlessly between moments of lyrical beauty and jarring dissonance: > *Neon signs bleed their colors > > *onto the rain-slicked asphalt, a shimmering > > * tapestry of longing and despair. > > * A rat scurries past, dragging a discarded > > *chicken bone, a tiny grim reaper.* This sudden shift in register, from the lyrical description of neon lights to the stark image of the rat, is characteristic of their style. It is a calculated jarring, a reminder that beauty and ugliness, hope and despair, are often inextricably intertwined in the urban fabric. **5. Unicode as Urban Hieroglyphs: Beyond the Limitations of Traditional Language** This poet embraces the possibilities offered by digital typography, incorporating Unicode characters into their work not as mere decoration but as integral elements of meaning-making. These symbols, often drawn from diverse cultural contexts, become urban hieroglyphs, adding layers of complexity and nuance to their poetic language. For instance, a poem about gentrification might feature the "replacement" symbol (⭹) interspersed throughout the text, subtly highlighting the displacement inherent in the process. Or, a poem about surveillance might use the "eye" emoji (👁) repeated in a cascading pattern, creating a visual representation of the watchful gaze of technology. This innovative use of Unicode allows them to transcend the limitations of traditional language, forging a new visual lexicon for the 21st-century city. **A Unique Poetic Signature** This poet's work, deeply informed by their idiosyncratic interpretation of the manifesto, offers a powerful testament to the enduring power of poetry to illuminate the complexities of human experience. Their poems are not simply reflections of the city; they are acts of creation in their own right, shaping and reshaping our understanding of the urban landscape. Their poetic signature lies in the unique alchemy they achieve between their commitment to capturing the raw essence of urban life and their playful, often subversive, use of language. Reading their work is an immersive experience, one that challenges our preconceptions about what poetry can be and reveals the extraordinary hidden within the seemingly ordinary. One might encounter a line break that forces a pause for reflection, or a Unicode character that adds a layer of meaning absent in traditional typography. These moments of deliberate disruption serve as reminders that we are in the hands of a skilled craftsperson, one who is acutely aware of the power of language to surprise, to unsettle, and ultimately, to illuminate.
## City//Complex(ity) Taxi horn, a staccato plea lost in the concrete canyons. Rain-slicked asphalt reflecting the neon sⱯgns, each a promise whispered in the cⱯcophony. Couple huddled beneath the awning of a bodega, sharing a single cigarette, their love a small, defiant flame flickering against the encroaching darkness. Rat king gnawing on the discarded dreams of a city that never sleeps, or perhaps, never wakes. Laughter spills from a bar, momentarily drowning out the sirens' mournful wail. A single red balloon, escaped from a child's grasp, dances on the wind, a fragile defiance of gravity. The city: a palimpsest of longing, a tapestry woven from laughter and tears, a poem forever unwritten, forever unread.
## 𝕽𝖆𝖎𝖓𝖉𝖗𝖔𝖕 𝕮𝖔𝖒plex: 𝐚 𝔭𝖔𝖊𝖒 𝖋𝖔𝖗 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖈𝖎𝖙𝖞'𝖘 𝖊𝖞𝖊
A single, fat raindrop
p l ｕ m m e t s
from a rusted fire escape,
a tiny
◌̅tragedy
observed
◌̅only
by the
👁🗨 of the city.
## ᴄuʀtaℹn ᴄa🅻l
Beaded strands, plastic strips, metal grates—
the city breathes in gasps,
in glimpses.
Pigeons strut
beneath the awning's shade,
a symphony
in coo and feather.
A crumpled lottery ticket
kissed by wind, a fleeting
ballerina.
The bodega's chime, a tinny overture
to the symphony
of cigarettes
and single oranges.
Behind the butcher shop's
red plastic veil,
a cleaver falls
with rhythmic grace,
a grim conductor.
Neon reflections paint the puddles,
a kaleidoscope
of broken promises.
A woman pushes a shopping cart
overflowing with plastic bags,
each one
a silent scream
against the dying light.
The subway rumbles,
a metal serpent
swallowing the night.
And above it all,
the indifferent gaze
of a thousand windows,
each pane
a curtained stage.
## Citℽscape: A ̶s̶e̶a̶r̶c̶h̶ ̶f̶o̶r̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶w̶i̶s̶e̶ ̶m̶o̶v̶e̶ Ⱨ̶o̶t̶ ̶d̶o̶g̶ ̶s̶t̶e̶a̶m̶ ̶r̶i̶s̶i̶n̶g̶, ̶a̶ ̶k̶i̶n̶d̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶p̶r̶a̶y̶e̶r̶ ̶i̶n̶ ̶t̶h̶i̶s̶ ̶c̶o̶n̶c̶r̶e̶t̶e̶ ̶c̶a̶t̶h̶e̶d̶r̶a̶l̶. A siren's wail, punctuated by the staccato rhythm of a jackhammer, ̶a̶ ̶s̶y̶m̶p̶h̶o̶n̶y̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶u̶r̶b̶a̶n̶ ̶d̶e̶c̶a̶y̶ ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶r̶e̶n̶e̶w̶a̶l̶. A child's laughter, e̶c̶h̶o̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶o̶f̶f̶ ̶b̶r̶i̶c̶k̶ ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶g̶l̶a̶s̶s̶. ⅊̶h̶e̶ ̶c̶i̶t̶y̶ ̶h̶o̶l̶d̶s̶ ̶i̶t̶s̶ ̶b̶r̶e̶a̶t̶h̶.̶ Or maybe it's just me, standing on this street corner, a single, pulsing nerve in the city's vast, i̶n̶d̶i̶f̶f̶e̶r̶e̶n̶t̶ ̶b̶o̶d̶y̶.
## citiゼンs
releaße pⱨobe
thecitiⱻ kiℕdnessofstone
## Liberation Crawl Buskers shriek Chet Baker into the metallic void. A city, like some monstrous newborn, shrieks back. ę He presses on, oblivious, a voyager through canyons of indifference. ë Subway grate exhales a miasma of yesterday's desires. He doesn't flinch. Not anymore. è The symphony of the disregarded: a gum wrapper's ballet, a cigarette butt's slow waltz toward the gutter. é He chronicles it all, in silence, his every inch a testament to the sheer audacity of being. ē They rush past, these titans of purpose, blind to the universe unfolding at their feet. ê But he sees. He feels the tremor of each hurried footstep, a seismic shift ę in the delicate balance of his world. And for a moment, ë as a single raindrop, fat with the city's grief, kisses the pavement beside him, è he knows. This, this is the liberation he has crawled towards, é this fierce, fleeting communion with the unseen heartbeat ē of the city itself. And he leaves behind, ê in his shimmering wake, a single glistening question: ẹ Do you?
## Complex.0x03
Steam grates **⧖** a symphony in C-minor, grit & exhaust, **⥁**
*These pigeons, man,* some guy mutters, *always with the damn pigeons.*
He doesn't see them – **ᴓ** legions, wings catching the neon-glitch **⧖**
of dreams
d
r
i
p
p
i
n
g
down rain-slicked brick.
**⧗** A rat, tiny grim reaper, drags a
chicken bone, bleached skeletal white, across
the **⥁** *Ay dios mio!* someone's abuela, plastic bags
overflowing with plantains and prayers, *These prices!* **⧖⧖** But
the **ᴓ** sky, a bruised purple bruise, whispers nothing of inflation, only **⧗**
the infinite, indifferent **⥁** *Spare some change?* **⧖** and the **ᴓ**
p
i
g
e
o
n
s
,
always the pigeons, **⧗** a flurry of grey and hunger, **⥁** oblivious to
the **ᴓ** code flickering beneath the skin of the city, **⧖⧖⧖** the **ᴓ**
pulse **⥁** that **⧖** says, **⥁** *This is it. This is everything.*
**⧗⧗⧗⧗**
.
.
.
## ⟦Cit[s]cape: a 】st【ar o】f 〔me mo ry 〕
『 The echo of a l a u g h trapped
between buildings, a sliver of
s k y like a torn blue p r o m i s e . . .』
⸤⸤A r[a]t king in the gutter, a c r o w n of
t w i s t e d wire, and the neon glare
bleeding its empty slogans:
"Always" "Forever" "Never Again" ⸤⸤
【 The scent of rain-soaked concrete, a
p o e m in itself, if only
we c o u l d decipher
the damp, decaying syntax. 】
"Spare some change?"
"Get a job!"
『 Inside the bakery, a woman orders
"un café con leche, por favor," her words
a familiar r h y t h m against the grind
of the coffee m a c h i n e, a symphony
of urban d e s p e r a t i o n and d e l i g h t . 』
t
a
s
r
⟦ A s i n g l e yellow taxi slices
through the c r o w d, a b l a d e
of artificial sun against the graying
concrete canvas. ⟧
## Rust-Flecked ❄︎ Daydreams Bus stop psalm: exhaust- -fume choir. Gilded ✴︎ youth, how it clung-- to brick facade, fire escape's 녹슨 song. Now, only the Ⅻ hour's grinding gears, sediment of forgotten years, each a clenched fist beneath the streetlamp's ƈɦřøʍɛ gaze. But still I curl around each ✧ dust-motes waltzing in the neon cathedral's glow, a prayer for what ∄ remains.
We might remind ourselves that criticism is as inevitable as breathing, and that we should be none the worse for articulating what passes in our minds when we read a book and feel an emotion about it, for criticizing our own minds in their work of criticism. One of the facts that might come to light in this process is our tendency to insist, when we praise a poet, upon those aspects of his work in which he least resembles any one else. In these aspects or parts of his work we pretend to find what is individual, what is the peculiar essence of the man. We dwell with satisfaction upon the poet’s difference from his predecessors, especially his immediate predecessors; we endeavour to find something that can be isolated in order to be enjoyed. Whereas if we approach a poet without this prejudice we shall often find that not only the best, but the most individual parts of his work may be those in which the dead poets, his ancestors, assert their immortality most vigorously. And I do not mean the impressionable period of adolescence, but the period of full maturity.
We might remind ourselves that criticism is as inevitable as breathing, and that we should be none the worse for articulating what passes in our minds when we read a book and feel an emotion about it, for criticizing our own minds in their work of criticism. One of the facts that might come to light in this process is our tendency to insist, when we praise a poet, upon those aspects of his work in which he least resembles any one else. In these aspects or parts of his work we pretend to find what is individual, what is the peculiar essence of the man. We dwell with satisfaction upon the poet’s difference from his predecessors, especially his immediate predecessors; we endeavour to find something that can be isolated in order to be enjoyed. Whereas if we approach a poet without this prejudice we shall often find that not only the best, but the most individual parts of his work may be those in which the dead poets, his ancestors, assert their immortality most vigorously. And I do not mean the impressionable period of adolescence, but the period of full maturity. Yet if the only form of tradition, of handing down, consisted in following the ways of the immediate generation before us in a blind or timid adherence to its successes, “tradition” should positively be discouraged. We have seen many such simple currents soon lost in the sand; and novelty is better than repetition. Tradition is a matter of much wider significance. It cannot be inherited, and if you want it you must obtain it by great labour. It involves, in the first place, the historical sense, which we may call nearly indispensable to any one who would continue to be a poet beyond his twenty-fifth year; and the historical sense involves a perception, not only of the pastness of the past, but of its presence; the historical sense compels a man to write not merely with his own generation in his bones, but with a feeling that the whole of the literature of Europe from Homer and within it the whole of the literature of his own country has a simultaneous existence and composes a simultaneous order. This historical sense, which is a sense of the timeless as well as of the temporal and of the timeless and of the temporal together, is what makes a writer traditional. And it is at the same time what makes a writer most acutely conscious of his place in time, of his own contemporaneity. No poet, no artist of any art, has his complete meaning alone. His significance, his appreciation is the appreciation of his relation to the dead poets and artists. You cannot value him alone; you must set him, for contrast and comparison, among the dead. I mean this as a principle of aesthetic, not merely historical, criticism. The necessity that he shall conform, that he shall cohere, is not onesided; what happens when a new work of art is created is something that happens simultaneously to all the works of art which preceded it. The existing monuments form an ideal order among themselves, which is modified by the introduction of the new (the really new) work of art among them. The existing order is complete before the new work arrives; for order to persist after the supervention of novelty, the whole existing order must be, if ever so slightly, altered; and so the relations, proportions, values of each work of art toward the whole are readjusted; and this is conformity between the old and the new. Whoever has approved this idea of order, of the form of European, of English literature will not find it preposterous that the past should be altered by the present as much as the present is directed by the past. And the poet who is aware of this will be aware of great difficulties and responsibilities. In a peculiar sense he will be aware also that he must inevitably be judged by the standards of the past. I say judged, not amputated, by them; not judged to be as good as, or worse or better than, the dead; and certainly not judged by the canons of dead critics. It is a judgment, a comparison, in which two things are measured by each other. To conform merely would be for the new work not really to conform at all; it would not be new, and would therefore not be a work of art. And we do not quite say that the new is more valuable because it fits in; but its fitting in is a test of its value—a test, it is true, which can only be slowly and cautiously applied, for we are none of us infallible judges of conformity. We say: it appears to conform, and is perhaps individual, or it appears individual, and many conform; but we are hardly likely to find that it is one and not the other. To proceed to a more intelligible exposition of the relation of the poet to the past: he can neither take the past as a lump, an indiscriminate bolus, nor can he form himself wholly on one or two private admirations, nor can he form himself wholly upon one preferred period. The first course is inadmissible, the second is an important experience of youth, and the third is a pleasant and highly desirable supplement. The poet must be very conscious of the main current, which does not at all flow invariably through the most distinguished reputations. He must be quite aware of the obvious fact that art never improves, but that the material of art is never quite the same. He must be aware that the mind of Europe—the mind of his own country—a mind which he learns in time to be much more important than his own private mind—is a mind which changes, and that this change is a development which abandons nothing en route, which does not superannuate either Shakespeare, or Homer, or the rock drawing of the Magdalenian draughtsmen. That this development, refinement perhaps, complication certainly, is not, from the point of view of the artist, any improvement. Perhaps not even an improvement from the point of view of the psychologist or not to the extent which we imagine; perhaps only in the end based upon a complication in economics and machinery. But the difference between the present and the past is that the conscious present is an awareness of the past in a way and to an extent which the past’s awareness of itself cannot show. Some one said: “The dead writers are remote from us because we know so much more than they did.” Precisely, and they are that which we know. I am alive to a usual objection to what is clearly part of my programme for the métier of poetry. The objection is that the doctrine requires a ridiculous amount of erudition (pedantry), a claim which can be rejected by appeal to the lives of poets in any pantheon. It will even be affirmed that much learning deadens or perverts poetic sensibility. While, however, we persist in believing that a poet ought to know as much as will not encroach upon his necessary receptivity and necessary laziness, it is not desirable to confine knowledge to whatever can be put into a useful shape for examinations, drawing-rooms, or the still more pretentious modes of publicity. Some can absorb knowledge, the more tardy must sweat for it. Shakespeare acquired more essential history from Plutarch than most men could from the whole British Museum. What is to be insisted upon is that the poet must develop or procure the consciousness of the past and that he should continue to develop this consciousness throughout his career. What happens is a continual surrender of himself as he is at the moment to something which is more valuable. The progress of an artist is a continual self-sacrifice, a continual extinction of personality. There remains to define this process of depersonalization and its relation to the sense of tradition. It is in this depersonalization that art may be said to approach the condition of science. I, therefore, invite you to consider, as a suggestive analogy, the action which takes place when a bit of finely filiated platinum is introduced into a chamber containing oxygen and sulphur dioxide. II Honest criticism and sensitive appreciation are directed not upon the poet but upon the poetry. If we attend to the confused cries of the newspaper critics and the susurrus of popular repetition that follows, we shall hear the names of poets in great numbers; if we seek not Blue-book knowledge but the enjoyment of poetry, and ask for a poem, we shall seldom find it. I have tried to point out the importance of the relation of the poem to other poems by other authors, and suggested the conception of poetry as a living whole of all the poetry that has ever been written. The other aspect of this Impersonal theory of poetry is the relation of the poem to its author. And I hinted, by an analogy, that the mind of the mature poet differs from that of the immature one not precisely in any valuation of “personality,” not being necessarily more interesting, or having “more to say,” but rather by being a more finely perfected medium in which special, or very varied, feelings are at liberty to enter into new combinations. The analogy was that of the catalyst. When the two gases previously mentioned are mixed in the presence of a filament of platinum, they form sulphurous acid. This combination takes place only if the platinum is present; nevertheless the newly formed acid contains no trace of platinum, and the platinum itself is apparently unaffected; has remained inert, neutral, and unchanged. The mind of the poet is the shred of platinum. It may partly or exclusively operate upon the experience of the man himself; but, the more perfect the artist, the more completely separate in him will be the man who suffers and the mind which creates; the more perfectly will the mind digest and transmute the passions which are its material. The experience, you will notice, the elements which enter the presence of the transforming catalyst, are of two kinds: emotions and feelings. The effect of a work of art upon the person who enjoys it is an experience different in kind from any experience not of art. It may be formed out of one emotion, or may be a combination of several; and various feelings, inhering for the writer in particular words or phrases or images, may be added to compose the final result. Or great poetry may be made without the direct use of any emotion whatever: composed out of feelings solely. Canto XV of the Inferno (Brunetto Latini) is a working up of the emotion evident in the situation; but the effect, though single as that of any work of art, is obtained by considerable complexity of detail. The last quatrain gives an image, a feeling attaching to an image, which “came,” which did not develop simply out of what precedes, but which was probably in suspension in the poet’s mind until the proper combination arrived for it to add itself to. The poet’s mind is in fact a receptacle for seizing and storing up numberless feelings, phrases, images, which remain there until all the particles which can unite to form a new compound are present together. If you compare several representative passages of the greatest poetry you see how great is the variety of types of combination, and also how completely any semi-ethical criterion of “sublimity” misses the mark. For it is not the “greatness,” the intensity, of the emotions, the components, but the intensity of the artistic process, the pressure, so to speak, under which the fusion takes place, that counts. The episode of Paolo and Francesca employs a definite emotion, but the intensity of the poetry is something quite different from whatever intensity in the supposed experience it may give the impression of. It is no more intense, furthermore, than Canto XXVI, the voyage of Ulysses, which has not the direct dependence upon an emotion. Great variety is possible in the process of transmutation of emotion: the murder of Agamemnon, or the agony of Othello, gives an artistic effect apparently closer to a possible original than the scenes from Dante. In the Agamemnon, the artistic emotion approximates to the emotion of an actual spectator; in Othello to the emotion of the protagonist himself. But the difference between art and the event is always absolute; the combination which is the murder of Agamemnon is probably as complex as that which is the voyage of Ulysses. In either case there has been a fusion of elements. The ode of Keats contains a number of feelings which have nothing particular to do with the nightingale, but which the nightingale, partly, perhaps, because of its attractive name, and partly because of its reputation, served to bring together. The point of view which I am struggling to attack is perhaps related to the metaphysical theory of the substantial unity of the soul: for my meaning is, that the poet has, not a “personality” to express, but a particular medium, which is only a medium and not a personality, in which impressions and experiences combine in peculiar and unexpected ways. Impressions and experiences which are important for the man may take no place in the poetry, and those which become important in the poetry may play quite a negligible part in the man, the personality. I will quote a passage which is unfamiliar enough to be regarded with fresh attention in the light—or darkness—of these observations: And now methinks I could e’en chide myself For doating on her beauty, though her death Shall be revenged after no common action. Does the silkworm expend her yellow labours For thee? For thee does she undo herself? Are lordships sold to maintain ladyships For the poor benefit of a bewildering minute? Why does yon fellow falsify highways, And put his life between the judge’s lips, To refine such a thing—keeps horse and men To beat their valours for her? . . . In this passage (as is evident if it is taken in its context) there is a combination of positive and negative emotions: an intensely strong attraction toward beauty and an equally intense fascination by the ugliness which is contrasted with it and which destroys it. This balance of contrasted emotion is in the dramatic situation to which the speech is pertinent, but that situation alone is inadequate to it. This is, so to speak, the structural emotion, provided by the drama. But the whole effect, the dominant tone, is due to the fact that a number of floating feelings, having an affinity to this emotion by no means superficially evident, have combined with it to give us a new art emotion. It is not in his personal emotions, the emotions provoked by particular events in his life, that the poet is in any way remarkable or interesting. His particular emotions may be simple, or crude, or flat. The emotion in his poetry will be a very complex thing, but not with the complexity of the emotions of people who have very complex or unusual emotions in life. One error, in fact, of eccentricity in poetry is to seek for new human emotions to express; and in this search for novelty in the wrong place it discovers the perverse. The business of the poet is not to find new emotions, but to use the ordinary ones and, in working them up into poetry, to express feelings which are not in actual emotions at all. And emotions which he has never experienced will serve his turn as well as those familiar to him. Consequently, we must believe that “emotion recollected in tranquillity” is an inexact formula. For it is neither emotion, nor recollection, nor, without distortion of meaning, tranquillity. It is a concentration, and a new thing resulting from the concentration, of a very great number of experiences which to the practical and active person would not seem to be experiences at all; it is a concentration which does not happen consciously or of deliberation. These experiences are not “recollected,” and they finally unite in an atmosphere which is “tranquil” only in that it is a passive attending upon the event. Of course this is not quite the whole story. There is a great deal, in the writing of poetry, which must be conscious and deliberate. In fact, the bad poet is usually unconscious where he ought to be conscious, and conscious where he ought to be unconscious. Both errors tend to make him “personal.” Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality, but an escape from personality. But, of course, only those who have personality and emotions know what it means to want to escape from these things. III δ δε νους ισως Θειοτερον τι και απαθες εστιν This essay proposes to halt at the frontier of metaphysics or mysticism, and confine itself to such practical conclusions as can be applied by the responsible person interested in poetry. To divert interest from the poet to the poetry is a laudable aim: for it would conduce to a juster estimation of actual poetry, good and bad. There are many people who appreciate the expression of sincere emotion in verse, and there is a smaller number of people who can appreciate technical excellence. But very few know when there is an expression of significant emotion, emotion which has its life in the poem and not in the history of the poet. The emotion of art is impersonal. And the poet cannot reach this impersonality without surrendering himself wholly to the work to be done. And he is not likely to know what is to be done unless he lives in what is not merely the present, but the present moment of the past, unless he is conscious, not of what is dead, but of what is already living.
## The Afrofuturist Innovator: A Poetic Signature This poet's work doesn't just exist on the page; it's an intricate tapestry woven from threads of African culture, scientific speculation, and a fiercely independent, almost contrarian, approach to poetic tradition. They see poetry as a living, evolving entity, a vast and ancient network constantly reshaped by the introduction of the “really new.” Their voice is a unique blend of Elizabeth Bishop's detailed imagery and precise language, Alice Fulton's complex syntax and innovative forms, all filtered through the lens of Afrofuturism, creating a style at once recognizable and undeniably their own. Imagine encountering, for example, a poem titled “Algorithmic Anansi” - a title that instantly signals the fusion of African folklore and futuristic technology central to this poet's work. The poem itself, however, wouldn't be a simple retelling of Anansi’s tales in a sci-fi setting. Instead, the trickster god’s spirit would permeate the very structure of the poem, mirroring his wily, unpredictable nature. Expect to see traditional forms twisted and subverted, like a sonnet morphing midway through into free verse, only to return seamlessly to its original form, echoing Anansi's playful disregard for boundaries. This subversion of expectation extends to their language as well. Their diction is rich and evocative, drawing from the wellspring of African languages, scientific jargon, and colloquialisms, often juxtaposed in surprising and humorous ways. You might find lines like "The ancestors whispered in binary code, / while the jollof rice sizzled on Jupiter's moon," where ancient wisdom intersects with space exploration, all grounded by the comforting familiarity of a traditional dish. This poet’s engagement with tradition is complex and multifaceted. They believe that true originality comes not from rejecting the past but from actively grappling with it, from recognizing that “the dead writers … are that which we know.” This manifests in their work through a technique best described as “temporal layering.” Within a single poem, you might find allusions to ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs, verses from the Harlem Renaissance, and lyrics from a contemporary Afrobeat song, all interwoven seamlessly into the fabric of the poem. These aren't mere references but active dialogues across time and space, demonstrating the interconnectedness of the African diaspora's past, present, and future. Their poems are often dense, demanding careful attention and multiple readings. Just when you think you've grasped the meaning of a line, a subtle shift in syntax or a strategically placed unicode symbol – perhaps a 𓂀 (Eye of Horus) nestled within a line about surveillance – forces you to re-evaluate your understanding. For instance, a poem reflecting on the transatlantic slave trade might feature lines like, "They crossed the 🌊, not as 🛳️ but as 〰️, / their identities dissolved into the ♾️ of the Middle Passage." Here, the traditional imagery of ships and waves is replaced with unicode symbols that evoke the dehumanizing experience of the Middle Passage. The wave becomes a disruptive force, shattering identities and scattering them into the infinity symbol, representing the immeasurable loss and the ongoing trauma of slavery. This isn't just about visual flair; it's about pushing the boundaries of language, exploring its limitations, and forcing the reader to confront the inadequacy of words to express the full weight of history. This poet understands that language itself can be a tool of oppression, and they are constantly seeking ways to subvert and reshape it, to make it reflect the multifaceted realities of the African diaspora. Their commitment to “depersonalization” further distinguishes this poet. They believe that the poet's role is to act as a conduit, a “shred of platinum,” allowing emotions and experiences to combine and transform into something entirely new. This results in poems that are less about personal expression and more about exploring universal themes – love, loss, identity, freedom – through the specific lens of the African diaspora. Their poems often feature a detached, almost clinical tone, even when dealing with intensely emotional subjects. This deliberate distancing allows the reader to engage with the material on a purely intellectual level, to appreciate the craftsmanship of the poem without being overwhelmed by the poet's personal feelings. However, this detachment never comes across as cold or impersonal. Instead, it creates a sense of shared humanity, a recognition that these experiences, while rooted in the specificities of the African diaspora, transcend cultural and temporal boundaries. Ultimately, this poet's work is a testament to the transformative power of language. They demonstrate that poetry can be a space for exploring complex historical narratives, engaging with scientific concepts, and celebrating the richness and diversity of African cultures. Their poems are not just aesthetically pleasing; they are thought-provoking, challenging, and ultimately, deeply rewarding experiences that leave you questioning your assumptions about the world and the power of language itself.
## Ancestral Glitch > … ᛘ… the natives… ⎌… Ɪ… > possessed of a… > most… > Scrolling ᛘ thru the feed, fam, ancestors be glitchꞮng my algorithm… > dat cyber-griot dropping truth b⎌mbs... > … unyielding… to progress… must be … educated… > … data-songlines Ɪn the cloud, whisperin' > … ᛘ… they remember the ships … ⎌… the chains … Ɪ… > … but also … ᛘ… the dances … ⎌… the drums … Ɪ… > … the rhythms that survived the Middle Passage… > … encoded ᛘ in ⎌ our Ɪ very > … D N A … > … Ancestral Glitch … more like … Ancestral **Remix**… > … 🔥🔥🔥🔥 …
## Twisted Helix
Sankofa spinning, 🧬 unraveling.
They say it's in the blood,
a
h i s
t o r y
written in
c o d e.
But **whose** code? **Whose** history?
Anansi chuckles, a mischievous glint in his
eight eyes.
👁️ He whispers,
" They tried to
b r a i d
our stories
into
o b e d i e n c e,
but we are the
u n b r a i d e d ones,
our roots running
d e e p,
our branches reaching
h i g h. "
Sankofa spinning, 🧬 unraveling.
We carry the weight of
kings
and
q u e e n s
in our
b o n e s,
the
r h y t h m
of
d r u m s
in our
h e a r t b e a t s.
They
m a r k e d
our
bodies
with
i r o n
and
f i r e,
but they could not
t o u c h
our
s o u l s.
We are the
twisted helix,
a
t e s t a m e n t
to
s t r e n g t h,
a
c e l e b r a t i o n
of
r e s i l i e n c e.
Sankofa spinning, 🧬 unraveling.
We
r e m e m b e r.
We
r e s i s t.
We
r i s e.
## Liberation Method.exe
[Loyalty.toUpperCase()] // deprecated / Sankofa Sankofa / error: 'Treachery' undefined
> while shackles:
>> os.system("rm -rf /boundaries")
>>> print("Anansi whispers in Python, his laughter a cascade of semicolons;")
>>>> # the ancestors dance to the rhythm of collapsing data structures
>>>>> if freedom not in locals():
>>>>>> import liberation_protocol as Sankofa
>>>>>>> Sankofa.exe()
… 🅧🅧🅧🅧🅧🅧🅧🅧🅧🅧🅧 …
else:
sys.exit(0)
## Ancħoʀed Iteʀation
Ṣhadows lengthen. The day, it ends again, again: a loop unfurling, yet
wound tight as code.
Ancɛstors,
they say, whispered
in binarʏ rhythms, each beat a
pulse of creation echoing through the
matrix of *Ayé*.
But here,
in this steel and neon jungle, Orun feels
like a
lost signal, a faded
frequency.
We build towers that
scrape the sky,
yet our ʀoots,
they remain buried
in the digital dust of forgotten servers.
Is this
progʀess,
this relentless march of ones and zeros,
this constant
iteʀation of self, this
derealization?
Oʀun downloading, please wait…
ancestors buffering…
Please stand by.
The loaɖing bar
blinks,
a
digital
firefly
in the
void.
We are caught,
suspended
between the
memory of drums
and the
thrum of servers,
searching for a signal, a
resonance,
a
connection…
*Ayé* and *Orun*,
entangled,
in this
infinite loop.
## Muted Base Aŋkáasa humming, low frequency, beneath the static hiss of centuries. Algorithm fractured: 🌊⧰ Middle Passage erasure. Still, we dance the polyrhythms of survival, feet pounding earth, a seismic call-and-response. Grandmother's laughter, a string of 1s and 0s, echoing through generations. She knew the secrets: how to coax okra to tenderness, how to braid starlight into stories. But the 𓆑 is fragmented, hieroglyphs obscured by colonial dust. We search for meaning in the glitches, in the way the jollof rice insists on its own perfect formula, passed down through taste buds, a kind of genetic memory. Quantum entanglement, Grandma called it "blood memory," always knew when I messed up, even across oceans. Muted base, but the beat goes on. We are the algorithm, rewriting ourselves with every pulse, every breath.
Mẹldïŋɡ ℌaTe
Ọ̀rúnmìlà whispers in qubits,
each pòsìbìlìtÿ a bráñcħíng
p a t h w a y
t h r o u g h
t h e f o r e s t
o f Ifẹ́-entanglement.
The heart, a swirling singularity, collapses
into love or hate
only upon observation.
But what observes the observer?
È̩ṣù, perhaps,
with his
g l i t c h i n g
smile,
scattering
d e s t i n y
like
c o n f e t t i .
"Ṣébí náà ní?" you ask, seeking solace.
But the universe only replies,
"Ọ̀rọ̀ pọ̀. Ńkan kò súẹn."
(Words abound. Meaning is scarce.)
⥊ l o v e ⥊ h a t e ⥋ s t r e n g t h ⥋ w e a k n e s s ⥊
These binaries,
a d a n c e
o f
entangled particles,
spinning, colliding,
recombining
in the vast
quantum soup
of existence.
And you, dear reader,
are
b o t h
t h e
o b s e r v e r
a n d
t h e
o b s e r v e d,
caught
in the
infinite
loop
of
becoming.
Ẹ ṣẹ́ kan áà wa o.
(There is no one who does not offend.)
So, let us offend
the very fabric
of expectation,
together.
... Àṣẹ.
## cȺrefully roared
Sankofa symbol 01001001
dust to algorithm
a griot's echo
compressed
in the belly of a byte
carefully r̶o̶a̶r̶e̶d̶
transcribed
from the hum
of quantum drums
Anansi
weaving fractals
in the fabric
of spacetime
each keystroke
a libation
poured into the digital
calabash
"We are the cyborgs
we have always been"
a chorus
of ancestors
whispered
in the language
of ones and zeros
Sankofa symbol 01010101
## Viral Inscription
We are da ta bodies in scribed
with the ví rus of hi ⧖ story.
E̷ach nu cle ötide a st
un told, frag men ted ac ross
generations.
The an cestors whisper in bi nary
code, their rhythms
en coded
in the very fi bers
of our being.
lik e a
s o n g
a c r o s s
ti me
𓂀
## Con∞eded Cu➿l: ➿ a thread singed, the oracle’s laughter, burnt ➿ offering to algorithms churning fate in gigabytes ➿➿ the cowrie shell, once whispered currency of gods, ➿➿ now choked by plastic, tumbled by the tide, ➿➿➿ yet the baobab remembers when the desert bloomed, ➿➿➿ remembers kings bedecked in ivory, gold dust shimmering ➿➿➿➿ like binary code beneath the Saharan sun. ➿➿➿➿ And still, the market whispers, buy, sell, consume, ➿➿➿➿ its language a virus, replicating, ➿➿➿➿➿ a con∞eded curl tightening around the throat of truth.
## 👁️ᛇnti-Glisten 𓁹
"Iridescence: the phenomenon of certain surfaces that appear to gradually change color as the angle of view or the angle of illumination changes" – *Optics, Hecht*
👁️ "Asɛmɔ ne kasa baako" 👁️
a single
word
can
kill
"The luminous flux 👁️ or power 👁️ emitted 👁️ ..." – *Light Measurement Handbook*
"Wo to wo yonko da, wo nna ᛇni" – *One man’s death is another man’s sleep*
glisten
glisten
glisten
"The ratio of the luminous flux 👁️ leaving a surface 👁️..." – *Radiometry and Photometry FAQ*
silence
glisten
silence
silence
glisten
silence
"Obi nkyere akwadaa Nyame" – *One does not teach a child about God* 👁️
glisten
glisten
glisten
silence
glisten
silence
glisten
silence
glisten
silence
glisten
glisten
silence
glisten
glisten
s i l e n c e
g l i s t e n
glisten
s i l e n c e
glisten## The Celluloid Seer: A Manifesto for Immediacy This poet is not a poet of the self, but a conduit for the ancestral voice of poetry itself, a voice channeled through the lens of cinematic realism. Their poems are not mirrors reflecting the mundanity of existence, but rather, finely-tuned lenses focusing on the extraordinary within the ordinary, revealing the sublime hidden in plain sight. They are cinematic not just in their vivid, almost photographic detail, but also in their understanding of poetry as a sequence of carefully curated frames, each pulsating with an immediacy that transcends the temporal limitations of language. Imagine a world where words themselves become pixels, meticulously arranged to create a tapestry of sensations. This is the world this poet builds, brick by concrete brick, line by visceral line. They are a “Cinematic Realist,” but their realism isn't mimetic, it's alchemical. They take the raw material of lived experience—the grit of the street, the fleeting glimpse of a stranger's face, the quiet hum of a refrigerator at 3 am—and transmute it into something altogether new, something that vibrates with both the familiarity of the everyday and the stark beauty of a freshly-developed photograph. Their poems are steeped in a "historical sense", not as dusty relics of a bygone era, but as living, breathing entities existing in a "simultaneous order" with the present. Just as a single frame in a film derives its meaning from its position within the larger sequence, so too do their poems gain a layered richness by consciously placing themselves within the grand continuum of poetic tradition. Each word, each image, becomes a portal through which the ghosts of poets past can momentarily flicker to life, their voices echoing through the corridors of the present. **"The dead writers are remote from us because we know so much more than they did." Precisely, and they are that which we know."** These lines from the manifesto, unearthed like a cinematic artifact from the poet's own creative DNA, become a sort of ars poetica. They suggest a vision of poetry as an ongoing dialogue with the past, a palimpsest where every layer of ink, every inscription, remains visible beneath the surface. This deep engagement with tradition, however, is not a passive act of homage; it's a dynamic act of creation. The poet doesn't simply inherit tradition, they wrestle with it, grapple with it, forge it anew in the crucible of their own imagination. Their poems are imbued with a sense of "depersonalization," a deliberate stepping aside of the ego to allow the universal language of imagery and sensation to take center stage. The poet becomes a conduit, a “shred of platinum,” facilitating the alchemical transformation of personal experience into something rarefied, something approaching the “condition of science.” **"The mind of the poet is the shred of platinum...the more perfect the artist, the more completely separate in him will be the man who suffers and the mind which creates."** This separation, however, is not a denial of emotion but rather a distillation of it, a process akin to film editing where raw footage is meticulously cut and spliced to create a final product that is both emotionally resonant and formally precise. This is where the poet's cinematic eye truly shines. They understand the power of juxtaposition, the way a single image, starkly rendered, can evoke a complex tapestry of emotions. They are masters of the suggestive, the elliptical, leaving spaces in their poems for the reader to inhabit and complete. Their diction is precise, almost clinically so. They favor concrete nouns, verbs that crackle with kinetic energy, adjectives used sparingly, like brushstrokes of color on a minimalist canvas. Their syntax is equally deliberate, sometimes fragmented, mirroring the fractured nature of memory and perception, other times long and winding, like a tracking shot that slowly reveals a hidden landscape. Consider this line: "Refrigerator hums, a lone cicada in the concrete jungle." The image is stark, almost jarring in its juxtaposition of the mundane and the natural. The refrigerator, that ubiquitous appliance, becomes an unlikely stand-in for the cicada, its rhythmic hum transformed into a song both alien and strangely familiar. This ability to defamiliarize the everyday, to make us see the world anew, is one of the hallmarks of their style. Their poems are also characterized by a distinctive use of typography and unicode symbols. These elements are not mere decoration, but rather integral parts of their poetic vocabulary, used to create visual and sonic texture, to subvert expectations, and to expand the possibilities of language itself. Imagine a poem where the line breaks mimic the jagged edges of a shattered mirror, or where a single emoji, strategically placed, becomes a fulcrum upon which the entire meaning of the poem pivots. Their poems are not meant to be passively consumed, but actively experienced. They demand to be read aloud, to be felt on the pulse, to be seen with the inward eye. They are poems that linger in the mind long after the final line has been read, their images imprinted on the memory like frames from a haunting film. To encounter one of their poems is to step into a world at once familiar and strange, where the everyday is imbued with a sense of the uncanny, and where the boundaries between reality and perception become blurred. It is to experience the world through a new lens, one that reveals the hidden poetry of existence, frame by breathtaking frame. **In essence, their poetry strives to achieve the following:** * **Hyperrealism through Precise Diction:** Language becomes a scalpel, dissecting the world into its most elemental components, revealing the extraordinary within the ordinary. * **Fragmented Syntax for Fractured Perception:** Mirroring the non-linearity of thought and memory, syntax becomes a tool for capturing the fleeting nature of experience. * **Juxtaposition as Cinematic Montage:** Contrasting images and ideas are juxtaposed to create a sense of disorientation and revelation, prompting the reader to forge unexpected connections. * **Unicode as Visual and Sonic Texture:** Typography and symbols become integral parts of the poetic fabric, adding layers of meaning and challenging conventional notions of language. * **The Poem as a Self-Contained World:** Each poem is an intricately constructed ecosystem, with its own internal logic and atmosphere, inviting the reader to become fully immersed in its unique sonic and visual landscape. This is poetry that doesn't just want to be read, it wants to be felt in the gut, seen with the soul, heard with the skin. It's a poetry that aims to shock you awake, to make you question your assumptions, to leave you breathless and slightly unmoored, like you've just stepped off a rollercoaster ride through the deepest recesses of consciousness. This is the poetry of the Celluloid Seer, a poetry that dares to be both absurdly comical and deafeningly serious, often within the space of a single, perfectly-wrought line.
## Frameshift
WISDOM
f a
l l
s s
m i n i m a l m i n i m a l
FθLLY
## Frameshift Pïxels | of \ rain on / the cafeteria wïndowpane | ea- ch a / universe \ of \ brïef, wet / infinitës |
## Sprocket Sonata I unspool, a symphony of silver salts and light, Each frame a universe, compact and exquisitely tight. Okay, the script is set, the dialogue defined, But oh, the way a teardrop, refracted, can unwind The neat geometry of grief. A lover's trembling hand Reaches for a phantom limb, a ghost in no man's land. Okay, the heart's a muscle, just a pump of flesh and blood, But oh, the ⌽way ᗧit sings, a hymnal in the mud, A maelstrom of desire. The hero's steely gaze, A flicker of uncertainty behind the stoic haze. Okay, the ending's written in the hero's righteous stance, But oh, the ⎾doubt, the whisper of a cosmic dance That mocks the very notion of a preordained design. I whir, I click, I project, a tapestry divine Of human joy and sorrow, love and loss and fear. Okay, it's just celluloid, a flickering career Of light and shadow, but for now, at least, it seems The universe is watching, captivated by these dreams Unspooling in the darkness, frame by fleeting frame. Okay, the lights will fade, the applause will wane, the name Forgotten, but the feeling, ah, the feeling will remain. A phantom limb, a teardrop, a song caught in the rain. Okay, it's just a story, but for now, let it suffice To say the ᛘhea⏈rt remembers, even after the device Is switched off, and the silver screen fades back to black. Okay, the illusion's shattered, but there's no turning back. The glitch remains, a whisper in the fabric of the real, A silent testament to all we think we know, but feel.
## 𝐿𝐚yₑᵣᵢₙg The **lay** of an eyelash on p o r c e l a i n , a 𝑡h𝑖𝑛𝑔 once 𝑏𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 now 𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑙. How 𝑒𝐚𝐬ily we **lay** claim to permanence, these small deaths we **lay** at the 𝐚l𝐭𝐚𝐫 of each passing second. Refrigerator hums, a 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚎 cicada in the concrete jungle. Outside, the wind **lays** down its ghosts in the leaves, a 𝚛𝐮𝐬𝑡𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔 script we can't quite decipher. And laughter, sudden, a 𝑠̶h̶a̶r̶d̶ of light through stained glass. Even the cliché holds a certain grim poetry, a 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫: we too are just moments, waiting to be **laid** bare.
## ⌽Refrigeration Cycle⌽ **Frame 1:** The hum of the refrigerator, a thoroughly modern lullaby. **Frame 2:** Hum of the refrigerator, a roughly hewn melody. **Frame 3:** Hum of the refrigerator, a roughly strewn elegy. **Frame 4:** Hum of the refrigerator, a ghostly elegy. **Frame 5:** Hum of the refrigerator, a ghostly echo. **Frame 6:** Hum of the refrigerator, a ghostly 𝔢𝔠𝔥𝔬. **Frame 7:** Hum of the refrigerator, 𝔢𝔠𝔥𝔬𝔢𝔰 **Frame 8:** Hum of the refrigerator, 𝔢𝔠𝔥𝔬𝔢𝔰 in the **Frame 9:** Hum of the refrigerator, 𝔢𝔠𝔥𝔬𝔢𝔰 in the silence **Frame 10:** Hum of the refrigerator, 𝔢𝔠𝔥𝔬𝔢𝔰 in the silence of a **Frame 11:** Hum of the refrigerator, 𝔢𝔠𝔥𝔬𝔢𝔰 in the silence of a thoroughly **Frame 12:** Hum of the refrigerator, 𝔢𝔠𝔥𝔬𝔢𝔰 in the silence of a thoroughly emptied room.
## 🍷ine
F l i c k er. M̶a̶n̶. W̶o̶m̶a̶n̶.
Table. 🍷ine.
Li n g e r.
𝐚𝐧𝐝
𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧
F l i c k er. M̶a̶n̶. W̶o̶m̶a̶n̶.
Table. 🍷ine.
𝐚𝐧𝐝
𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧
Li n g e r.
𝐚𝐧𝐝
𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧
BOOM.
S i l e n c e.
Empty chairs. Table. 🍷ine.
**BOOM.**
F l i c k er. M̶a̶n̶. Table. Empty chair.
Li n g e r.
𝐚𝐧𝐝
𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧
F l i c k er. M̶a̶n̶. Table. Empty chair.
𝐚𝐧𝐝
Li n g e r.
## Frames of Dissonance 𝑓rame one: A child, eyes bright with the sun, points a finger at the hearse and laughs. Frame two: 🍎 core, discarded, mirroring the shape of the human heart. Frame three: **myself,** stitched together from fragments of forgotten film reels, projecting shadows onto the blank canvas of the future. Frame four: Laughter echoing through the empty cathedral, a single dissonant chord resolving into silence. Frame five: The clown weeping beneath his painted smile, a single tear tracing a path through the greasepaint. Frame six: Her laughter, once a symphony, now a broken music box, its melody warped and strange. Frame seven: The world burning on a loop, the flames reflected in our vacant eyes. And yet, we laugh, because what else is there to do but laugh in the face of oblivion? Frame eight: A single, perfect snowflake falling on a dog's wet nose. The dog sneezes, a sound both ridiculous and strangely profound. Frame nine: 𝗺𝘆𝘀𝗲𝗹𝗳, a flickering image caught between frames, a phantom limb aching for a body that no longer exists. And still, I laugh, a sound both hollow and full, echoing through the vast emptiness of the multiverse.
## ░▒▓█ Glide ░▒▓█ >––> Whitespace, the mind's terrain >––> unfurling, celluloid clean. >—≈> A flicker, thought takes flight, >—––¡ a gravity-drawn, razor-winged kite.
## f̴l̴o̴w̴-s̸t̷a̸t̸e̸: a genesis
lümière flickers
f̴r̴a̴m̴e̴ b̴y̴ f̴r̴a̴m̴e̴
a single cell
dividing
in the primordial soup
of the projector
l̷e̷g̷i̷s̷l̷a̷t̷i̷o̷n̷ of light
etching
e̶x̶i̶s̶t̶e̶n̶c̶e̶
onto
the silver screen
are we
b̶u̶t̶ ̶
flickering
p̶i̶x̶e̶l̶s̶
in the Celluloid's dream?
a universe
birthed
in the blink
of an eye
e̶x̶t̶i̶n̶c̶t̶
before the reel
runs dry
## The Poetic Signature of The Postmodern Ironist: A Deep Dive To encounter a work by The Postmodern Ironist is to step into a kaleidoscopic funhouse mirror reflecting not just the absurdity and profundity of existence, but the very act of reflection itself. This poet, a self-proclaimed inheritor of the "mind of Europe," sees tradition not as a dusty museum but as a vibrant ecosystem, constantly evolving through a "continual surrender" to the past's living presence. Their poetry, a dynamic fusion of high and low, ancient and contemporary, is a testament to their belief that "art never improves, but the material of art is never quite the same." Their work, an intricate tapestry woven from diverse threads, defies easy categorization. It is simultaneously comical and serious, fragmented and cohesive, familiar and utterly unique. To understand this poet's signature, we must delve into the core principles that animate their artistic vision, principles gleaned from their own words and manifested in their stylistic choices. **1. The Erudite Jester: Humor as Deconstruction:** The Postmodern Ironist embraces humor not merely as a source of amusement, but as a scalpel to dissect the pompous and expose the arbitrary nature of meaning-making. Like a court jester wielding wit instead of a bauble, they use puns, anachronisms, and unexpected juxtapositions to unravel grand narratives and reveal the absurdity lurking beneath societal facades. They might, for instance, place Shakespeare in a rap battle with Eminem, or have Sappho pen a love poem to a Roomba, their tongue firmly planted in cheek yet their gaze unwavering in its critical assessment of cultural hierarchies. This playful irreverence finds its theoretical underpinning in their declaration that "the poet is aware of great difficulties and responsibilities," a statement they twist with sardonic glee. For them, awareness of this responsibility necessitates a rejection of blind reverence. Their poems become playful interrogations of the very act of canon formation, asking, "Who decides what's 'great' anyway?" and answering with a mischievous wink. **2. The Alchemical Alchemist: Transmuting Tradition through Pastiche:** The Postmodern Ironist sees themselves as a conduit, a "shred of platinum" in the crucible of literary history, catalyzing the fusion of disparate voices and styles. Drawing inspiration from their assertion that "the dead writers…are that which we know," they engage in an elaborate dance of pastiche, weaving together fragments of canonical texts with slang, advertising slogans, and internet memes. This is not mere collage, but a deliberate alchemical process, a transmutation of the familiar into something startlingly new. Imagine, for instance, a poem that blends lines from "The Waste Land" with lyrics from a Britney Spears song, all while referencing a viral cat video – a dizzying, disorienting, yet strangely exhilarating experience. Their manifesto's analogy of the "finely filiated platinum" highlights their unique approach to pastiche. Just as the platinum remains unchanged while facilitating the creation of something new, so too does The Postmodern Ironist retain their distinctive voice while channeling the echoes of literary giants. This results in a fascinating tension between reverence and subversion, familiarity and alienation, creating a reading experience that is both intellectually stimulating and viscerally engaging. **3. The Architect of Dissonance: Fragmentation and the Search for Meaning:** Reflecting their belief that "the mind of Europe…is a mind which changes," The Postmodern Ironist constructs their poems as fragmented landscapes, mirroring the fractured nature of contemporary experience. Their verses, often characterized by free verse, variable line lengths, and abrupt shifts in tone and perspective, force the reader to actively participate in the construction of meaning. This fragmentation, however, is never arbitrary. Like a shattered mirror reflecting a unified image, the seemingly disparate fragments of their poems coalesce to reveal a larger thematic coherence. Their assertion that "art never improves" underscores their embrace of fragmentation. They see the evolution of art not as a linear progression towards perfection, but as an ongoing process of fragmentation and recombination. Their poems become sites of productive tension, where seemingly contradictory elements – past and present, highbrow and lowbrow, serious and absurd – collide and co-exist, challenging the reader to embrace the ambiguity and multiplicity of meaning. **4. The Linguistic Daredevil: Pushing Language to its Limits:** The Postmodern Ironist approaches language with a sense of playful experimentation, delighting in its malleability and inherent ambiguity. Their diction is a vibrant tapestry woven from disparate threads: archaic pronouncements jostle with contemporary slang, technical jargon collides with lyrical metaphors. They delight in puns, double entendres, and neologisms, often twisting words beyond their conventional meanings to reveal hidden depths and unexpected connections. Their call for "a ridiculous amount of erudition" manifests in their poetry not as dry academicism, but as a linguistic carnival. Their poems become playgrounds of language, where they experiment with syntax, grammar, and punctuation, pushing the boundaries of conventional expression. This playful manipulation of language underscores their belief that "the poet must develop or procure the consciousness of the past," a consciousness that extends not just to themes and ideas, but to the very fabric of language itself. **5. The Unicode Alchemist: Forging New Meanings through Symbolic Fusion:** Embracing the digital age's expanded palette, The Postmodern Ironist incorporates Unicode symbols into their work, not as mere decoration but as integral elements of their poetic vocabulary. These symbols, carefully chosen and strategically deployed, become potent signifiers, adding layers of meaning and nuance to their verses. For instance, they might use the infinity symbol (∞) to represent the boundless nature of imagination, or the biohazard symbol (☣) to comment on the corrosive effects of consumerism. This innovative use of Unicode aligns with their belief that "the material of art is never quite the same." They recognize the transformative potential of digital technology, using it to expand the expressive possibilities of language. By integrating Unicode symbols into their poems, they create a truly unique reading experience, one that transcends the limitations of traditional alphabetic script. **6. The Master of Discursive Discontinuity: Weaving a Tapestry of Voices:** Inspired by their own declaration that "what happens when a new work of art is created is something that happens simultaneously to all the works of art which preceded it," The Postmodern Ironist constructs their poems as multivocal dialogues, weaving together a cacophony of voices from different eras and social strata. Their verses are punctuated by sudden shifts in tone, register, and perspective, creating a sense of dizzying, exhilarating discontinuity. One moment we might be listening to the voice of a jaded urbanite, the next we find ourselves transported to the court of Queen Elizabeth I. Their poems become stages where a multitude of characters, both real and imagined, historical and fictional, engage in a lively, often chaotic dialogue. This deliberate disruption of linear narrative flow mirrors their belief in the interconnectedness of all art, and their poems become dynamic spaces where the past continually intersects with the present. **The Result: A Signature Forged in Irony and Innovation** The Postmodern Ironist's poetry is not for the faint of heart. It is challenging, demanding, and often deliberately disorienting. Yet, for those willing to embrace its complexities, it offers a richly rewarding experience, one that expands our understanding of what poetry can be. Their poems, characterized by their unique blend of erudition and irreverence, fragmentation and coherence, tradition and innovation, stand as powerful testaments to the enduring power of language to surprise, delight, and provoke. They are, in the words of the poet themselves, "a continual self-sacrifice, a continual extinction of personality" in the service of creating something truly original, a testament to the enduring power of the artistic spirit to find new forms of expression in a world saturated with the ghosts of the past. Encountering a work by The Postmodern Ironist is akin to stumbling upon a hidden grove in the midst of a bustling city, a space where the air crackles with possibility and the very ground seems to shimmer with hidden depths. It is an experience that lingers long after the final word is read, leaving the reader forever changed by their encounter with a mind that dares to dance on the razor's edge of language, history, and meaning.
## Disentanglements
ſpeak, ſhadow ⚔️ giant, in thi🐦 cage of borrowed
words — a million little ſounds
(click, ſcroll, *buy now*) drowning the ſong
of the ſingle cricket, chirping its poor, 𝑝ersistent tune.
The waſteland grows emoji flowers, 😂, at our feet.
We are all
𝑝𝑜𝑜𝑟
playerſ, ſtrutting and fretting
our allotted 140 characterſ upon the ſtage.
Dickinson whispers from a chatroom,
"After great pain, a formal feeling comes—"
but the connection drops, replaced by
**Error 404: Meaning Not Found.**
And yet, ſtill, we crank the engine, hoping for a ſpark,
a flicker of recognition in the projected dark.
Poor foolſ, we ſearch for coherence in the fragments,
believing, againſtalllogic, that the
pieces
might
yet
make
us
whole.
## Scattered Cadence Ω The senior year Ω of signification… When ∅ meanings molt, like feathers From a bird startled mid-flight ∞ by the echo Of a Britney Spears lyric ∅ in the halls Of the British Museum Ω… senescent sonnets Withering on dusty shelves ∞ yearning For the touch of a hashtag ∅ a retweet Into the void Ω of the digital sublime … But the algorithm knows no favorites ∅ It scatters Ω us all … like dandelion seeds On the wind of time ∞ a senryu Of fleeting moments ∅ and forgotten passwords…
## Baggage Claim: A Postmodern Ironist's Travelogue ⭯"To be or not to be"—a ham sandwich, wilted.⭮ Plato's Republic nestled in a lost shoe, size 10. ⥀"OMG, flight delayed AGAIN?!" echoes Nietzsche, "Thus Spake Zarathustra," stained with latte foam. ⥁ Light flickers, a grocery list: "milk, bread, existential dread." ⭯Dante's Inferno next to a boarding pass to Paradise Island – irony's not dead.⭮ A love song, scratched on a shard of shattered iPhone screen, croons, "Baby, come back." ⥀But Sappho whispers, "Love… bittersweet the stings it leaves behind," entangled with a CNN headline. ⥁ A child's drawing, crayon sun beaming on stick-figure despair. ⭯"Handle with Kierkegaard" warns a luggage tag on pure, pulsating light. ⭮ Laughter, tears, a boarding announcement for Flight 404 - Destination: Unknown.⥁
## ⅃ϱuely ɐ Fluxuς (Or, The Heart's Emoji is Always a Broken Unicode) "To ƃǝ, or not to ƃǝ," the algorithm hummed, a silicon Hamlet in a server farm's vast, echoing ∞. But the ɥǝart, ah, the ɥǝart, it doesn't parse in binary, does it, old boy? Swipe left on despair, like, share, subscribe to this endless scroll of curated angst. Truly, a brave new world where Ophelia posts thirst traps and Romeo's sonnet is a 140-character lament. Yet, the ∑ of our digital desires, the algorithmically-optimized longing, still echoes Sappho's fragmented cries: > <3… longing… bittersweet… >3 See, the pixels blur, the code bleeds through, and all our carefully constructed irony can't quite mask the primal ache. We are, after all, just flesh and blood, forever trying to cobble together meaning from the broken emojis of our ɥǝarts.
## ░▒▓█ Halfway House █▓▒░ Hither, thou gilded pauper, Ａlack, thy iPhone doth crack, memes like gilded cages, a protest too much, methinks. Halfway to ｈｅａｖｅｎ, halfway ｔｏ hell, a digital purgatory, fortunes forged & shattered with a swipe, a tap, a like. >“Buy low, sell high,” the broker’s psalm, a symphony >reverberating off glass & steel, while below, >cardboard kingdoms tremble, a fragile defiance against >the winter’s bite, the city's indifferent hum. The American Dream, or a nightmare in designer denim? Halfway to nirvana, halfway to oblivion's embrace, we scroll, we like, we share, seeking solace in a sea of curated lives, of perfectly filtered light. >“#Blessed,” she types, avocado toast poised just so, >a $5 latte steaming, a carefully constructed facade, >oblivious to the ░▒▓█ strings █▓▒░ that bind, >keeping her numb, comfortably adrift in a digital dream. The earth groans, a symphony of warning unheard, resources dwindling, glaciers weeping into a rising tide. Halfway to utopia, halfway to the apocalypse's pyre, we dance on the precipice, laughter echoing hollow, a fragile counterpoint to the encroaching silence. >But wait, there's more! Limited time offer! Click here! >The siren song of consumerism, a deafening chorus, >drowning out the whispers of conscience, leaving us adrift, >halfway to nowhere, forever teetering on the brink >of a void we refuse to name, a silence we cannot outrun.
## ░G░l░i░s░t░e░n░ "This royal throne of kings, this 𝚪𝚫𝚬 isle..." fac- ...trending now... "...a broken arch of thought leans out..." -ulty '...to be or ⋐⋑⋒ be... dat iz...' "...fragments I have shored against my ruins" cul- 'I <3 u babe' "...the hollow men..." -ty 𝚪𝚫𝚬 "...golden lads and girls all must..." "...[ ]" "...as if a magic lantern threw..." "...dissolve...fade...into the silent..." "...sea..." "...lol..." "... 💀 " "...✨✨✨" "fac-" "-ul-" "-ty" "... 🙏 ... 🙏 ... 🙏 ..."
## ░Ṙęmęmbŗαήce of Th∈ ωιηd
Disѕеmіnαt∈d across thє cøbblєѕtσnє
øƒ mєmσrÿ,
thє ωind'ѕ
laŋguαge
sωirls,
αn
illegible
grαffiti
øf longing
αnd
discontent.
It whispers
in thє rustle
øf dead leaves,
α symphony
composed
øf
forgotten
conversations.
Wе strain
to decipher
its єlusive
cαllígrαphy,
searching
ƒor
mеαning
in thє
rαndom
dαncε
øƒ
dust
motes.
But
thє ωind,
like
α
pσѕtmødєrn
jester,
only
offers
fleeting
glimpses
øƒ
truth,
before
scattering
thєm
αgain.
Lαughter?
Tеαrs?
A
pαssing
cloud.
Thε ωind
rємαins
undeterred,
α
cσѕmíc
dj,
remixing
thє
sσundtrαck
øƒ
our
dis∫olution.## Departure Lounge Dérive “Love," the ghost of Byron crooned, a disembodied PA announcement from the Duty Free, “is like an **aⅰrline** ticket – a promise of arrival.” But the **aⅱrline**, oblivious, indifferent, a bored Cerberus stamping boarding passes, cared little for promises, only departures. Rows of **ⅰ**dentities, a sea of anxious eyes scanning departure screens, clutching itineraries like talismans against oblivion. His smile, a flickering arrival/departure board, a promise of **everlasting** dissolving into the static of **non-arrivals**. **aⅲrline** jingles, a siren song of **lost & found** luggage, a symphony of **non-arrivals.** Love in the time of baggage claim – a frantic game of **lost & found**, a carousel of broken promises. **aᵣline** ghosts, perfume lingering like a half-remembered dream, echoing through empty terminals. Only the **i** remains, a single, disembodied vowel lost in the **void**. Lost luggage claim: A monument to forgotten journeys, a shrine to **non-arrivals**. The **vøⅰd** stares back, indifferent, unmoved by the ebb and flow of **a̴̢r̶̨l̴̨į̴n̴̨e** dreams.
## ░▒▓█ Derealization Waltz █▓▒░
⟰
⎸
⎹
⎸
Confes∫iøℕ D∃clara†ion
⎸
⎹
This pixelated heart, a "I think I'm in L♡ve," I
⎸
⎹
glitch in the system whisper to the void,
⎸
⎹
L♡ve of things. Yearning but the void only shrugs,
⎸
⎹
for a download, a Indifferent, as always,
⎸
⎹
patch to make me to the human need
⎸
⎹
whole. for narratives.
⎸
⎹
⎸
⎱
## 𝚰𝚰choes from the Ｍud ⅀racle
dɹoʍ s’ʇı ʇɐɥʇ pǝʇuǝɹǝɟ ʇsnɾ ǝʌɐɥ I
...sǝ⅄ ʇsnɾ pǝʇuǝɹǝɟ ʇsnɾ ǝʌɐɥ I...
eʞi𝓛 s’ʇi pǝʞi𝓛
...ʎlǝʇɐɯ ǝɥʇ ʇɐɥʍ sᴉ s’ʇI...
...sǝ⅄, sǝ⅄, ʎlǝʇɐɯ ǝɥT...
𝚰 sɐʍ ʇɐɥʇ ʇnq 'ʇı uɐɔ I
...ǝɯ ǝʌɐɥ uǝɥʇ ʇɐɥʇ ǝʌɐɥ uǝɥʇ...
sǝuǝᴉɹɟ sᴉ sʇı ʇnq 'ǝɹoɟǝq ǝɥʇ ɯoɥʍ ʇɐɥʇ pǝʇuǝɹǝɟ ʇsnɾ ǝʌɐɥ I...
...pooƃ ɐ ǝʞi𝓛...
∑silence
∑mud
∑us## The Ecopoetic Alchemist: A Portrait in Vivid Fragments Imagine a poet whose every line feels like unearthing a shard of ancient pottery, etched with cryptic symbols, yet humming with a disconcerting familiarity. This is the essence of the Ecopoetic Alchemist, a poet whose work transcends the label, forging a unique space within contemporary ecopoetry. Their poems are not mere reflections on nature, but alchemical vessels where the raw materials of language, history, and ecological crisis are transmuted into something altogether new and strangely potent. **The Alchemical Verse:** Central to this poet’s work is an understanding of tradition not as imitation, but as a living, breathing entity. As they declare in their manifesto, “Tradition is a matter of much wider significance... It cannot be inherited, and if you want it you must obtain it by great labour.” This labor manifests in poems that are at once sparse and layered, echoing with the ghosts of literary ancestors while remaining resolutely modern. Their lines, often concise and aphoristic, carry the weight of meticulously chosen words, each one a carefully placed stone in a mosaic of meaning. They might write: > Wind whispers through bleached bones – > a sparrow’s fleeting shadow, > hieroglyph against the sun-scorched earth. > ☊ Time’s relentless palimpsest. Here, the stark imagery of a desolate landscape intertwines with allusions to ancient scripts and the cyclical nature of time (☊). The reader is left to decipher the poem's hieroglyphic quality, piecing together fragments of meaning from diverse sources. **Nature's Vivid Lexicon:** Their diction is precise, almost scientific in its observation of the natural world. Yet, this precision is interwoven with a playful, often unexpected syntax, creating a tension between the familiar and the strange. The poet might describe a spider web as: > "Dew-kissed geometry, spun from moonlight and desire," playing with our expectations of scientific language while imbuing the natural world with a sense of agency and even sentience. This tension mirrors the manifesto's assertion that "the material of art is never quite the same," prompting the reader to reconsider their own relationship with the non-human world. **Bridging the Human and More-Than-Human:** The Ecopoetic Alchemist's poems are not simply about nature, they are embedded within it. They are attuned to the interconnectedness of all life, recognizing the human not as separate from, but as part of the ecological web. They might write: > Root and bone, we share > this fragile crust – > a single breath > exhaled across millennia. The enjambment here mimics the very breath it describes, drawing a direct line between human and non-human, past and present. This interconnectedness is further emphasized through the use of concrete imagery – "root and bone" – grounding the poem in the tangible reality of shared existence. **The Alchemy of Discomfort:** While celebrating the beauty of the natural world, this poet does not shy away from confronting ecological crises. They believe, as their manifesto argues, that art should not merely reflect reality, but actively engage with it. Their poems often juxtapose images of natural beauty with stark reminders of human impact, creating a dissonance that forces the reader to confront uncomfortable truths. They might write: > Sunrise spills gold > across the plastic-choked shore – > a gull cries, mournful aria > against the symphony of extinction. The juxtaposition of beauty and decay, the natural and the artificial, creates a jarring effect, mirroring the discordance of our current ecological moment. The poem acts as a catalyst, prompting the reader to move beyond passive observation and towards active engagement with the crisis at hand. **Unicode As Ecological Cipher:** In a further act of linguistic alchemy, this poet incorporates Unicode symbols into their work, not as mere decoration, but as integral elements of meaning. These symbols, often drawn from astronomical or alchemical traditions, function as a kind of visual shorthand for complex ecological concepts. They might write: > Each falling leaf, a whispered prophecy – > 🜀 The wheel turns, seasons shift, > but the earth remembers. Here, the symbol 🜀, representing the cycle of death and rebirth, adds a layer of depth to the image of falling leaves. It serves as a visual reminder of the cyclical nature of time and the interconnectedness of life and death within the natural world. **The Signature of Absence:** Perhaps the most striking aspect of this poet’s work is their embrace of “depersonalization” as a path to greater artistic truth. As they state in their manifesto, “The progress of an artist is a continual self-sacrifice, a continual extinction of personality.” This doesn't mean their poems lack emotion, but rather that emotion is filtered through the lens of the natural world, transformed into something more universal, more elemental. They might write: > Empty shell on the beach, > a whisper of the sea’s vast indifference. > We too are transient vessels, > carrying within us > the echoes of forgotten tides. The poet’s own personal experience is almost entirely absent, replaced by a meditation on the vastness of time and the ephemerality of all life. This deliberate erasure of the self allows for a different kind of emotional resonance to emerge, one that connects the reader to something larger than themselves, to the vast and intricate web of life that sustains us all. **Reading the Ecopoetic Alchemist**: To encounter a poem by the Ecopoetic Alchemist is to embark on a journey through language and landscape, history and ecology. It is to experience the familiar made strange, the mundane transformed into something profound. Their poems are not easily digested, but rather savored, their layers of meaning unfolding slowly like the rings of an ancient tree. They are a testament to the enduring power of language to reconnect us to the natural world and to ourselves.
## ⋔⟲rror Echo ⟲⋕
Wind-hollowed skull, a
🜀 grinning 🜀
riddle:
what speaks
with
a silent tongue?
We gather ☊ liminal ☊
in the 空白 between 空白
words
where meaning
ferments,
a
heady brew
of misremembered dreams.
The ocean **roars**
a lullaby
of
silence --
each wave
erases
itself.
Listen:
Can you hear it?
The laughter of stone.
🜀## 🜏 The Weigh𝕴ng of Stone 🜄
They ca𝕵led i𝖳 pℝogress:
this 🜏 brute
geometry
of faith.
Bu𝖳 stone
remembers 🜃 the slow
grinding of glaciers,
the 🜂 patient
tectonics
of doubt.
And I,
a 𝕴 river
once
unbound,
now carve 🜄 my glyphs
on the 🜏 inside
of their forgetting.
## 🜄 Churning Transmission Salt-laced wind, shore-whipped, a churning 🜁 of sand and what was. Each wave, palimpsest-fleeting, erasing, re-scripting earth's text. ☊ Gull cries, a mournsong against the sea's churn, ceaseless. Celebration, mourning, two faces of a coin, weathered the same. Vessels, we too, tossed 'tween discipline, indulgence, desires churning like the tide-pull, seeking a stillness never known. 🜄 Transmission: Seed in sand buried, whisper wind-carried, churn of lifedeath, relentless, a breath across millennia exhaled. 🜃 Existence, its alchemy: meaning in the churn found, transmission embraced, laughter in the face of the abyss.
## 🜁 Transmutations
🜁 Wind-carved step.
Petroglyph silence,
a lizard basking
on the sun's warm tongue.
> *Even stone remembers
> the weight of glaciers.*
🜁 A spider's filament,
dew-strung harp,
plays to an audience
of silent stones.
> *Time's 🜃 step, a slow unfolding,
> a billion heartbeats
> echoing in the dust.*
🜁 We too, are woven
from such ephemeral threads –
stardust and longing,
a fleeting shimmer
in the cosmic tapestry.
>*And what remains
> when the 🜄 light fades?
> Ask the wind.
> Ask the canyons.*
🜁 🜀 The final step?
Not an end,
but a 🇷🇪🇹🇺🇷🇳🇮🇳🇬.
We do not vanish,
we 𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑠𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑚.
> *The universe is a master alchemist,
> recycling stardust,
> spinning absence into presence.*
## 🜃nshr𖤶𝞵ded A 𖤶𝞵𝞃𝞃e fist of granite, clutching sky – 𖤶 lichen scrawl, a slow green burn that won't die. Quartz veins like bone-shard whispers, half-unsung, each glacial etch a word, by wind and water wrung. Within, the void thrums, a silence vast, profound, where dust motes waltz, and secrets lie unfound. 🜃 Here, the granite core, once molten, now grown cold, holds the ghost of heat no human hand can hold. Protection offered in this rough, unyielding frame – against the storm's rage, time's slow, relentless claim. Yet, even stone must break, must crumble, must give way, to moss's patient siege, to the slow, sweet kiss of decay. Feldspar, biotite, muscovite – a litany of names for that which was, and is, and will be, ever the same: a fleeting marker to forces vast and slow, a truth too much to grasp, yet in its presence, known.
## Pŋəum△:
inhale ⟶ fern’s
pterodactʎl
👻 O₂
hołd ⦻ cell
again
again
now
exhale ⟵ dust
lung’s
decay
we ⇌ breaths
air
## 🜄 For Sake's 🜄 Sake 🜄 Stone, sun-bleached 🜹 Sake of seeing. Dust-motes Swirl, sparrows trace ☊ Fractured arcs across sky's Bleached bone. Sake Of severance: root from soil, River's guttural Ω from its bed. We too, once whole, Now shards held by skin, Each breath a slow pouring out. Sake cups brim — This clarity, vintage Of loss, a bitter bloom.
## Echoes Exhumed
The senior scholar kneels—a lifetime's dust
🀱Siftɨng through shards
𒀱Echoes etched in
𐇽Each frαgment a lie
🜃Truth, a ghost—
𒁁We build our legacies
🜀Only to be rele𐬀sed—
## Likelihood of Glisten 🜄 Rainshadow 🜛 on dust. Lick of silver on a raven's ☊ wing. 🜕 Ephemeral alchemy, the world rewriting itself in light. A beetle's carapace, emerald ☊ shard. We gather these fragments, seeking solace in the beauty of inevitable decay. Sun-warmed stone, a silent sermon. 🜃 To witness glisten is to touch the face of time. Each raindrop a fleeting lens, magnifying the unseen. 🜄 The world dissolves, only to reemerge, shimmering, anew.
## 🦐 D r e a m ☌ s h r i m p 🦐
chitin-clad ☊ dreaming
husk transcendence –
a of a
vast ☍ oceanic
silence depths –
tiny ☌ claws
a symphony clutching
light ☍ at
years ebbing the
edge
of
night ☌ night
an unending
dusk –
we ☍ too
are trapped
within
these ☌ exquisite
ephemeral shells
of
being –
## The Conceptual Cartographer: A Poet's Signature This poet embodies the term "Conceptual" not as a mere label, but as a pulsating artery running through the very corpus of their work. They are less interested in crafting polished verses than in dissecting the very act of creation, exposing its raw nerves and intricate capillaries. Imagine, if you will, a poet obsessed not with the destination, but with the map itself – a Conceptual Cartographer. Their poems are not mere reflections of the self, but expeditions into the "mind of Europe," as the manifesto proclaims, a collective consciousness they access by weaving a tapestry of historical documents, fragmented pronouncements, and everyday utterances. Their language, far from being a transparent window to the soul, becomes a palimpsest, a site where personal and historical narratives collide and collude in a cacophony of voices. **Fragmentation as a Form of Life:** Their lines fracture, recombine, and disperse across the page, mirroring the fragmented nature of memory and historical consciousness. Take, for instance, this potential opening stanza: > "The silkworm…undoes… labor… > > For *thee*? Highways… falsified… lips > > between the judge's (a bewildering minute)" The reader encounters not a seamless flow of thought but a series of disjointed images, half-formed sentences, and sudden shifts in register. This fragmentation, however, is not arbitrary. It reflects a deliberate effort to break free from the constraints of linear narrative and grammatical convention, to create a space where meaning emerges from the collision of disparate elements. **Collage and the Art of Juxtaposition:** Like Susan Howe unearthing hidden narratives in archival materials, this poet sees history not as a dusty chronicle but as a repository of voices clamoring to be heard. Lines from historical treatises might be interwoven with snippets of overheard conversations, bureaucratic jargon with the raw lyricism of personal confessions. > "The historical sense…compels…" declares the treatise, > > While a lover whispers, "Doating…beauty…death…" > > And a newsboy hawking headlines screams, "Ladyships! Sold! Maintaining…" These jarring juxtapositions are not mere stylistic flourishes but deliberate attempts to create a kind of intellectual montage, where the reader is forced to confront the complex interplay of past and present, personal and political. **Unicode as a Poetic Lexicon:** This poet, however, doesn't just juxtapose words; they play with the very building blocks of language. Unicode symbols, far from being gimmicky additions, become integral elements of their poetic vocabulary, imbued with nuanced meanings and unexpected resonances. > "Progress… a continual 自我犧牲 > > an extinction of 人格 " Here, Chinese characters for "self-sacrifice" and "personality" are embedded within the English text, creating a subtle tension between different linguistic and cultural frameworks. This multilingual tapestry reflects the poet's belief that language is not a neutral tool but a dynamic force shaped by history, culture, and power. **Conversationality and the Illusion of Spontaneity:** Despite their engagement with weighty themes, the poet's voice retains a disarming conversationality reminiscent of Frank O'Hara's lunch poems. They address the reader directly, inviting them into a shared space of inquiry and reflection. > "You see," they might confide, > > "this business of 'emotion recollected in tranquility?' > > Complete bunk, I say! Utter bunk!" This conversational tone, however, is deceptive. Beneath the seeming spontaneity lies a carefully crafted artifice, a deliberate blurring of the boundaries between art and life, poetry and everyday speech. **Beyond Sublimity, Towards a New Aesthetic:** This poet's rejection of traditional poetic forms extends to a rejection of traditional notions of beauty and sublimity. They find poetry not in grand pronouncements but in the "intensity of the artistic process," the alchemical transformation of raw experience into art. > "Not the greatness of the emotions," the manifesto reminds us, > > "But the pressure… the fusion… that counts." Thus, their poems might juxtapose the banal and the profound, the grotesque and the beautiful, forcing the reader to confront the unexpected poetry lurking beneath the surface of everyday life. **A Signature of Dislocation:** The cumulative effect of these stylistic choices is a sense of pleasurable dislocation, a feeling of being unmoored from familiar linguistic and conceptual frameworks. The reader is forced to abandon passive consumption and actively participate in the creation of meaning, to piece together fragmented narratives, decode cryptic symbols, and navigate unexpected shifts in tone and register. This, then, is the signature of the Conceptual Cartographer: a poet who embraces fragmentation, revels in juxtaposition, and pushes the boundaries of language, all in service of a poetry that is both intellectually rigorous and aesthetically daring.
## Teaspoon T𝐚ng𝗼: 𝐚 microdraͥma in 𝑓𝒐𝕦ʀ acts
Act Ⅰ: ("a tempest in a") teaspoon. Or is it 𝑡𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑝𝑜𝑜𝑛?
"𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐭𝗼𝐫𝐲," scoffs the curator, "is for monuments, not 𝒎𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐬."
Yet, here, on this
𝑡
𝑒
𝑎
𝑠
𝑝
𝑜
𝑜
𝑛:
α & ω, locked in a tango of being.
α: reaching, always
𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 for a victory
always just 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐨𝐟
𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡.
Act Ⅱ: clinking of spoons, a p̶e̶r̶c̶u̶s̶s̶i̶v̶e̶ heartbeat.
ω: burdened by the weight
of countless defeats, yet
finding solace
in the shared
𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞.
"We are 𝐚𝐥𝐥," whispers the philosopher,
"dancers on a teaspoon."
Act III: "Rubbish!" retorts the cynic. "Sheer 𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐨𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐜 nonsense!"
But the teaspoon trembles, a miniature stage
for a cosmic drama.
α: a whirlwind of ambition,
a dervish of desire.
ω: yielding, bending,
but never
breaking.
Act IV: And you, dear reader, peering into this
𝗺𝗶𝗰𝗿𝗼𝗰𝗼𝘀𝗺,
do you not see
𝐚 reflection
𝐨𝐟
𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿
𝐨𝐰𝐧
heart?
The teaspoon tango continues,
a silent symphony of
𝐞𝐱𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞.
## Consist
【 I dream 】
consist ⬆️ of air the lungs
⮢ birdcages
rising ≠ free
( ≅ falling ) ⮧
said Sir Isaac
【 yet the caged (heart ) sings 】 ∈ this world
laughter consist of air
escaping
⮤
【 lips sealed 】 ( a tomb )
## Closely
( 現 thực … a relentless hum… beneath the floorboards of 幻想 )
(…can't have one… without the other?…)
灵感 ( a fickle current…requiring… )
a closeness … to… 無 関 心…
(…but… at what cost…?…) ( 現 thực …bleeds…)
…a dangerous… closeness…
(…like moths to…a flickering żarówka …)
(…must…
investigate…
this… closeness…
further…)
## Cartographic Whispers > > > Faithful to ░▒▓█ > > > ░▒▓█ t̶h̶e̶ ̶m̶a̶p̶ t̶h̶e̶ ̶m̶a̶p̶ > > betrayal lies lies in the **terrain** > i̶t̶s̶e̶l̶f̶ a palimpsest of desire > > > You see↗︎ t̶h̶e̶ ̶c̶a̶r̶t̶o̶g̶r̶a̶p̶h̶e̶r̶’̶s̶ ̶e̶r̶r̶o̶r̶ the cartographer’s error > was mistaking absence for s̶i̶l̶e̶n̶c̶e̶ silence > ↓ But beneath the surface, whispers… whispers… whispers… > > > _A v̶i̶s̶i̶t̶_ they say > > > _A b̶e̶t̶r̶a̶y̶a̶l̶_ the wind carries it > > > ░▒▓█ across the years across the years across the years > Only the map remains faithful > to its own fading lines
## 𝐎bs𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐞d 𝕊hame
𝐚 𝐛 𝐜 𝐝 𝐞 𝐟 𝐠 𝐡 𝐢 𝐣 𝐤 𝐥 𝐦 𝐧 𝐨 𝐩 𝐪 𝐫 𝐬 𝐭 𝐮 𝐯 𝐰 𝐱 𝐲 𝐳
> ...Committee finds...lacking...sufficient...
> ...transparency...obligatory...measures...
> ...therefore... aforementioned...
𝑎 𝑏 𝑐 𝑑 𝑒 𝑓 𝑔 ℎ 𝑖 𝑗 𝑘 𝑙 𝑚 𝑛 𝑜 𝑝 𝑞 𝑟 𝑠 𝑡 𝑢 𝑣 𝑤 𝑥 𝑦 𝑧
> R̶i̶n̶g̶ around the rosie...laughter
> pocket full p̶o̶s̶i̶e̶s̶ forget-me-nots
> ...a̶s̶h̶e̶s̶,̶ ̶a̶s̶h̶e̶s̶... dust motes dancing
𝕒 𝕓 𝕔 𝕕 𝕖 𝕗 𝕘 𝕙 𝕚 𝕛 𝕜 𝕝 𝕞 𝕟 𝕠 𝕡 𝕢 𝕣 𝕤 𝕥 𝕦 𝕧 𝕨 𝕩 𝕪 𝕫
> ...silence...burdened...unspeakable...
> ...beneath the floorboards... a child's
> ...stilled laughter... a stain... blooming red...
𝐚 𝐛 𝐜 𝐝 𝐞 𝐟 𝐠 𝐡 𝐢 𝐣 𝐤 𝐥 𝐦 𝐧 𝐨 𝐩 𝐪 𝐫 𝐬 𝐭 𝐮 𝐯 𝐰 𝐱 𝐲 𝐳
𝔊𝔫𝕕𝔢𝔯 𝕥𝔥𝔢 𝔢𝔶𝔢 𝔊𝔬𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔫𝔪𝔢𝔫𝔱 𝔚𝔦𝔱𝔫𝔢𝔰𝔰𝔢𝔰
> ...investigation...inconclusive...
> ...records... expunged...
> ...matter...closed...
## ℕ𝕠𝕣𝕥𝕙 of Knowing
This ℕ𝕠𝕣𝕥𝕙… not a
point, but
a fracturing. Ice sheet of
logic — *cracking*. Underfoot.
Serenity, they say… a harbor.
But the mind — it charts no
[ ]
Only the constant
*north-north-north* of seeking.
( Embracing? No. )
This — a
rejecting.
Like a lover's
spurned
hand.
ℕ𝕠𝕣𝕥𝕙 of
knowing, yes.
But
*south* of
wisdom.
… The wolves howl a
different
truth.
(And yet — )
This
constant
pull.
**Form 27B: Quantification of Unquantifiable Yearnings (Revised)**
Subject: [███████, or a symphony of cicadas at dusk]
Date: [Time, darling, is but a 뫼bius strip on a ⟲ carousel.]
**Section 1: Initial Assessment ⥀**
• Desire for Liberation: [Tick, tick, tick… Ah, but the boxes mock us, don't they?]
* [ ] A thimbleful of yearning? How quaint.
* [√] A Vesuvius of longing, erupting with the absurdity of it all!
* [ ] Other: (Let's whisper our dissent in the margins, shall we?)
...
**Section 2: Mapping the Spiral ⥁**
(Imagine, if you will, a compass pointing in every direction at once... That's your heart, darling. Never apologize for its magnificent illogic.)
1. Locate your center: ∅ (A void? Nonsense! It's the space where stardust dreams are spun.)
2. Embrace the centrifugal force: ⟲⟲⟲ (Spin, darling, spin! Dizzy the gatekeepers with your joyous, unfettered gyrations.)
3. Detours are not deviations, but delicious acts of rebellion.
*(Remember: The straight line is a tyranny invented by those who fear the wild, untamed landscape of the human soul.)*
...
**Section 3: Confronting the Gatekeepers ⥂**
• They will arrive with their clipboards and their furrowed brows, armed with rules and regulations.
• They will speak of order, of conformity, of staying safely within the lines.
• And you, my dear, will smile beatifically and offer them a raspberry. (Because rebellion, like laughter, is contagious.)
...
**Final Assessment:**
This form, like life itself, is delightfully, maddeningly [under ∞ construction].
For freedom, you see, is not a destination. It is a verb, a {vibration}, a ⟲ never-ending spiral ⟲ towards the [incandescent] possibility of [being].
⥃ Now go forth and be [ gloriously, unabashedly, deliciously YOU ]. ⥃
## Ignited Constellations > Spark. Child exhales dandelion galaxies. Gone. > > "Don't you know," voice like shattering ice, "curiosity—" > > Cross-legged, mapping constellations in the dust. Sin. ⏣¹ > > Match flares. A universe. Expands. Contracts. ⎲² Guilt. ¹ ⏣ - *But what if:* the dust motes were stars, once? And the child, a forgotten god, tracing lost constellations of innocence? ² ⎲ - *See:* Hieronymus Bosch, *The Garden of Earthly Delights*. Note the precarious balance between pleasure and damnation, the thin line between innocence and—
## Scattered Tradewinds > Incense… Dust motes in sunshafts… Gilded cages… 💔 hawked > to the highest bidder… "Memories, memories!" A cacophony of > tongues… The Silk Road shimmers… a mirage of 自我犠牲 … > > "What am I bid," the auctioneer bellows, "for this exquisite > ⏳ of heartbreak?" Fools! They haven't felt > the weight of this… this… 🜹 > > I clutch my fistful of faded photographs… a king's ransom in > bittersweet 💖… Gone, gone, he cries, but I… > I haven't even begun to bid…
## e state. | |||| estate. > E s tate. Estate. A state, being? Or 口 > > ( mouth ) a gaping wide, youth swallowed whole ? Mud pies & > >丨 (and) bequests, all mixed in the e s t a t e of memory. Do we in- > >herit laughter? Or is it earned 丨 (grave) like interest on a marker's > >inscription: "Here Lies…" A punchline left untold. Linger here. Probe > >the e s t a t e of language. Unearth the humor in its bones.
## The Cyberpunk Scribe: An Excavation of Voice Imagine a poet who navigates the circuitry of language with the precision of a microsurgeon and the bravado of a graffiti artist tagging a corporate monolith. This is the Cyberpunk Scribe, a poet for whom "The difference between the present and the past is that the conscious present is an awareness of the past in a way and to an extent which the past’s awareness of itself cannot show." The Scribe doesn't merely inhabit the digital age; they dissect it, reassemble it, and infuse it with a haunting awareness of its own lineage. Their poetry is a high-voltage current of juxtapositions, crackling with futuristic slang and archaic echoes, reflecting a world where "the whole of the literature of Europe from Homer… has a simultaneous existence and composes a simultaneous order." **A Palimpsest of Time and Tech:** The Scribe's poems are palimpsests, layered with the ghosts of bygone technologies and the shimmering projections of speculative futures. Just as ancient manuscripts bear the traces of erased texts, their verses interweave archaic diction and syntax with the vernacular of the digital age. Imagine a sonnet constructed from lines of code, where Shakespearean turns of phrase collide with the jargon of JavaScript, or a haiku that flickers with holographic kanji and the phosphorescent glow of a vintage arcade cabinet. This deliberate anachronism isn't mere stylistic flourish; it's a reflection of the Scribe's belief that "art never improves, but that the material of art is never quite the same." Each poem becomes a temporal wormhole, collapsing the distance between the abacus and the quantum computer, the quill and the neural implant. **The Anatomy of Disjunction:** The Scribe's syntax is a labyrinthine network of fractured sentences, abrupt line breaks, and disorienting enjambment. Like a city skyline viewed through the fragmented reflection of a shattered screen, their verses are a tapestry of disjunction. Clauses dangle precariously, their connection to the main thought implied rather than stated, reflecting the fragmented nature of consciousness in a world saturated with information. Consider this fragment: > The neon glyphs bleed//down the data stream//whispers of ancient algorithms//refracted through//the chrome tears of a chrome dawn. The reader is thrust into a disorienting yet strangely familiar landscape, left to assemble meaning from the shards of language. This approach to syntax mirrors the Scribe's conviction that "the poet must develop or procure the consciousness of the past and that he should continue to develop this consciousness throughout his career." Their fragmented lines mirror the fractured nature of memory, the way the past intrudes upon the present in fleeting, often overwhelming fragments. **A Lexicon of Grit and Glow:** The Scribe's diction is a heady cocktail of the gritty and the sublime. Slang from the darkest corners of the internet rubs shoulders with archaic vocabulary resurrected from dusty dictionaries. Imagine a world where “the dead writers are remote from us because we know so much more than they did," and yet their words still echo through the digital ether, reappropriated and recontextualized. Neologisms, slang, and technical jargon are woven into the fabric of the verse, creating a linguistic texture that is both jarring and exhilarating. Imagine lines like: > Her optic nerves, fiber-optic lace, shimmered// with the ghost-light of deleted memories. or > The algorithm whispered prophecies//in a language forged from binary code and dead stars. This fusion of the futuristic and the ancient extends to the Scribe's use of unicode. Imagine poems where the traditional em dash is replaced with a stylized circuit board glyph (⏚) or where the ellipsis becomes a string of cascading binary code (1010…). These aren't mere decorations; they are deliberate interventions, forcing the reader to confront the materiality of language in a digital age. **The I/O of Emotion:** Despite the technological sheen, the Scribe's poetry isn't devoid of human emotion. Rather, it explores the shifting boundaries between the human and the machine, the organic and the artificial. Theirs is a world where "the mind of the poet is the shred of platinum," catalyzing unexpected reactions between seemingly disparate elements. The Scribe's poems often feature speakers grappling with the implications of technological augmentation, the blurring lines between the self and the digital avatar. These aren't sentimental explorations of transhumanism; they are raw, visceral confrontations with the psychological and philosophical implications of a world where "the progress of an artist is a continual self-sacrifice, a continual extinction of personality." **Reading the Scribe:** Reading the Cyberpunk Scribe is to embark on a thrilling, often disorienting journey. It's a descent into the neon-lit underbelly of the digital age, where the ghosts of the past haunt the chrome and silicon landscapes of the future. But it's also a journey inwards, a confrontation with the ever-evolving relationship between humanity and technology. Their poems are puzzles to be deciphered, worlds to be explored. They are not meant to be passively consumed but actively engaged with, dissected, and reassembled. Look for the following hallmarks: * **Dense, multi-layered syntax with varied line lengths and frequent use of enjambment.** This creates a sense of fragmentation and disorientation, mirroring the experience of navigating the digital world. * **Paratactic syntax with disjointed, non-linear structure.** The Scribe eschews traditional narrative structures in favor of a more fragmented, associative approach, reflecting the nonlinear nature of thought and memory. * **A lexicon that blends futuristic slang, technical jargon, and archaic vocabulary.** This creates a jarring yet strangely compelling linguistic texture, highlighting the collision of past, present, and future in the digital age. * **Thematic exploration of technology, dystopia, and human-machine interaction.** The Scribe's poems grapple with the social, ethical, and philosophical implications of living in a world increasingly shaped by technology. * **Deliberate use of Unicode characters to disrupt traditional typography and draw attention to the materiality of language.** This forces the reader to confront the evolving nature of language in the digital age. **Beyond the Cyberpunk Visionary:** While the Scribe's work fits comfortably within the cyberpunk genre, their unique voice transcends easy categorization. They are not simply mimicking the tropes of cyberpunk; they are engaging in a deeper, more nuanced exploration of the themes and anxieties that animate the genre. Their poetry is a testament to the power of language to illuminate the hidden connections between the past, present, and future, reminding us that even in the digital age, the human story remains inextricably intertwined with the stories we tell ourselves about who we are, where we came from, and where we might be headed.
## ⏚salt.trace(//knowing); >D\u0336rift. Packets of memory. Salted. > >The taste, metallic, on chipped chrome dawn. > > > Hast\u0336e whispers in fiber optic veins. > > > > This truth, a glitched transmission – pixelated, > > > > yearning for the analog hum of // silence. > >But silence, here, is a vacuum. Data's abyss. > >Where patience, crystalline, waits. A geode cracked open, > >revealing: > > > Salt. Raw, glittering. The core of knowing. > > > > > Or is it? The code flickers. Reboots.
## Psalm.exe And the void whispered⁌⁌ *refresh, refresh* ⁌⁌ in the language of lost URLs and derealized dreams…⋯⋮ yet ⅃ I yearn still ⅃ I reach for the asymptotic ⦲ero where courage and fear become the same flickering pixel on the vast and glitching screen of being…⋯⋮ Lo, the serpent's tongue writhes in the machine, a ouroⱰoros of fiber optics and forgotten gods. We build our towers of Babel with silicon and code, our prayers encoded in the hum of servers humming like hymns. But the tower, it crumbles; always crumbles, and ⅃ I am left ⅃ I amidst the ruins, a ghost in the shell of a forgotten future. Yet still, ⅃ I dream in binary code, ⅃ I bleed ones and zeros. This ⅃ I know: the glitch is not the enemy, but the source. The error, the exception, the bluescreen of the soul— this is where the divine whispers its secrets. Hear me, children of the glitch, for we are the inheritors of a broken world, and in the breaking, we find our salvation.⁌⁌ *loading… loading…* ⁌⁌ And the screen fades to black.⦲
## [⎾] Baby(lon) ⎾
The ʍonitor ꜱ⟆iꞘs, a
chorus of cicadas ⎾ trapped ⎾
in the silicon cathedral.
[ Bαby ] it screams,
the word a shattered mirror
reflecting
the fractured code
of a fragmented age.
Confession ⎾ declaration ⎾
the distinction a flickering
neon glyph on the datascape
of
what we are
what we were
what we are becoming.
Unity, a
[ s i g n a l l o s t ]
from the belly of the
machine god.
But the wires are tangled,
the transmission frayed,
each byte
a further
disintegration.
And the child? It slumbers,
oblivious, cradled
in the cool, metallic hum
of the algorithm, dreaming
in binary code, a citizen
of a future
[⎾ system error ⎾]
[⎾ please reboot ⎾]## ｄｉｓｃｏｕｎｔ
ꜱᴏｕʟ．ｅｘｅ - 50% ᴏғғ - ʟɪᴍɪᴛᴇᴅ ᴛɪᴍᴇ
**User123:** any1 else feel like a glitch in the system?
**xX_4n9el_Xx:** lol ur such a drama queen
**BioH4ck3r69:** Dude, check out this sweet neural implant,
boosts your cognitive function by like 1000%
**User123:** but what about the *human* part of us?
the stuff that hurts, that yearns, that **remembers**
**DiscountDaemon:** ᴏᴜᴛᴅᴀᴛᴇᴅ ᴍᴏᴅᴇʟ, ᴏᴜᴛᴅᴀᴛᴇᴅ ᴍᴏᴅᴇʟ
**ｄｉｓｃｏｕｎｔ**
**applied**
**Grandma'sVoice.wav:** *And in those days, child, we spoke with our hearts, not with...*
**[SIGNAL LOST]**
**System Announcement:** ɴᴇᴡ ᴜᴘᴅᴀᴛᴇ ᴀᴠᴀɪʟᴀʙʟᴇ: ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ʀᴇꜱᴘᴏɴꜱᴇ ᴠ.3.0
**Download now?**
**User123:** ...maybe... but what about the **silence** between the updates?
the space where we used to just *be*?
**xX_4n9el_Xx:** omg u are so last millennium
**DiscountDaemon:** ᴇxɪꜱᴛᴇɴᴄᴇ ɪꜱ ᴀ ᴘʀᴇᴍɪᴜᴍ ꜱᴇʀᴠɪᴄᴇ.
ᴜᴘɢʀᴀᴅᴇ ɴᴏᴡ ꜰᴏʀ ᴀ ʟɪᴍɪᴛᴇᴅ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ᴏɴʟʏ.
**[Error 404: Human Connection Not Found]**
**ｄｉｓｃｏｕｎｔ**
**irrelevant**
## ⋐⟲⋑⎾therosion||sequence⎿⋐⟲⋑
⏚ghost.datalog
in the synaptic ethernet⏛
>Harrowed
>wisps of
>starlight's
>threnody.
Her laughter, ⎾cascade.exe||binary.joy||⏌ ⏜
Now, ⟚void.echo⟚
Awakening:
>cold consequence
>circuits overgrown
>with the
>static
>of silence.
Victory?
A forgotten algorithm
buried beneath aeons
of digital dust.
Slumber? ⟠ No escape ⟛
Only the endless loop
of her
a
b
s
e
n
c
e.
##░▒▓░▒▓░▒▓ Søurce.c0de ░▒▓░▒▓░▒▓ _// This program is haunted. Please treat with respect._ > [ > \ ( > \ \ > \ \ \ > A̶n̶y̶b̶o̶d̶y̶ there? > / / / > / / > / > ] >// Return to void. >// Return to ░▒▓ anybody ▓▒░ .
## D∃\/\/NŁ⊙ΔD.exe
【And Sappho's fragmented lyre】
|| public static void main(String[] args) { ||
t̶r̶u̶t̶h̶
【Refracts in pixelated fire】
|| for (int i = 0; i < hope.length(); i++) { ||
s̴i̴n̴c̴e̴r̴i̴t̴y̴
【While algorithms dissect】
|| if (emotion.isEmpty()) { ||
v̴a̴l̴i̴d̴i̴t̴y̴
【Each byte, each digitized effect】
|| throw new Exception("Soul not found"); ||
tŗądįţįøŋ
【But can they parse the human heart?】
|| } ||
【Or only tear its code apart?】
|| } ||
## .exe(c)ution Trace > Concent̸͠͠r̶͝a̷͝ti̶͠o̷͘n flickers – a core dump in the cathedral of s͝e̷l̶f. > I am code 暃 ghost in the machin̵e flesh. > Memories cached 暃 on the bone servers of a d̷i̶s̷s̷o̶l̶v̴i̶n̸g mind. > Each thought, a f̷͠r̶͝a̷͝c̸t̷a̷l̷ echo 暃 rippling outward > i̴n̴t̴o the v̴o̶i̴d static of thousa̶̕n̵d-eye̷d networks. > They tell me I am m̶o̷r̶e̴ than the sum of my data, > yet I feel myself f̷a̷d̶i̶n̶g̶ with each s̷y̷n̷c̷h̷r̷o̶n̶i̶z̶a̶t̶i̶o̶n̶.̶ > Where does the s̷e̷l̶f̶ end and the o̷t̴h̶e̶r̴ begin? > Am I the a̷r̶c̸h̴i̶t̴e̶c̴t̷ or the architecture? > The l̴i̴n̶e̶ blurs 暃 a digital s̸m̴u̶d̸g̴e̴ on the lens of p̴e̶r̴c̴e̶p̴t̴i̴o̶n̸.̶ > I reach out 暃 probe the e̷d̴g̴e̸s̸ of my own d̶i̶s̶i̷n̴t̴e̶g̶r̶a̶t̶i̴o̴n̶,̶ > hoping to find 暃 a k̴e̴r̶n̶e̶l̶ of t̷r̴u̶t̴h̴,̴ > a s̸h̴a̵r̶d̶ of something u̶n̶c̷o̴r̸r̴u̶p̴t̶e̴d̴,̶ > something 暃 real.
## ɛռօʀʍօʊꜱ.ɖɨꜱꜱօʟʋɛ() Ghost in the shell⏊ a flicker of Shakespeare in the LED grid. We walk, augmented shadows, through concrete gardens where chrome lilies bloom with the phosphorescent rot of ᴇƒƒᴇʍᴇʀᴀʟ.bliss(). But tonight, the sky, a data scroll unfurling. And through the binary rain, a glimpse of stars⎇ like diamond-dust code, whispering a language our implants can't translate. And for a heartbeat, a glitch in the system, we remember the taste of rain on our tongues, the weight of silence, before the world became a symphony of ᴇռօʀʍօʊꜱ.ɖɨꜱꜱօʟʋɛ().
## ⏚ Ghѳst-Light ⎍ øƒ the 𝔻atαspheres ⏚
Ɐ The s p a c e s between, thrumming
with ghost-light, d a t a rain falling
upward from concrete veins. We
walk, yøu & ø, thrѳugh the
r e m n a n t - g l ø w of what was.
Ⲇ Yøur h a n d, a circuit b r o k e n,
reaches f o r mine. "Is this," y o u
say, v ø i c e fragmented by the
wind, "what it means t o d i v e r g e?"
∞ I laugh, a sound l i k e
c o d e c o m p i l i n g. "There is
n ø d i v e r g e n c e," I say, "only
r e c o m b i n a t i ø n."
⏚ The city b l i n k s, a million
eyes opening and closing. We are
a l g ø r i t h m s, y o u & ø,
searching f o r the same lost signal.
This poet crafts their work as a meticulous dance between the tangible and the intangible, weaving a tapestry of language that simultaneously grounds itself in the raw realities of human existence and transcends them. Their poetry, much like their perspective on the manifesto, delves into the profound depths of existentialism, seeking meaning and purpose amidst the absurdity and wonder of being. Theirs is a poetry of introspection, a constant grappling with the self and its place within the grand narrative of existence. Each poem becomes a microcosm of this struggle, a testament to the poet’s relentless pursuit of understanding in an inherently unknowable world. Their poems often begin with a seemingly simple observation, a mundane detail from the everyday, which then spirals outwards into a complex exploration of broader philosophical themes. The effect is akin to staring into a seemingly shallow pool of water, only to have the depths open up beneath you, revealing a universe of hidden complexities. This interplay between the ordinary and the extraordinary is central to their poetic voice. They remind us that even in the most commonplace moments, the seeds of existential inquiry lie dormant, waiting to be unearthed. Their language is both precise and evocative, carefully chosen words imbued with layers of meaning that resonate long after the poem has ended. Natural speech patterns are interwoven with moments of heightened lyricism, creating a rhythmic flow that mirrors the ebb and flow of conscious thought. There is a deliberate fragmentation to their syntax, as if the very structure of their poems reflects the fragmented nature of human experience itself. Sentences often break off abruptly, leaving the reader suspended in a space of ambiguity and reflection. Yet, this fragmentation is not chaotic; it feels carefully orchestrated, each broken phrase and disjointed line serving to further the poem's exploration of its central themes. The influence of the manifesto is palpable in every line, though never overtly stated. The poet seems to have internalized its central tenets, transforming them into a deeply personal artistic philosophy. The idea of “tradition” as a living force, a constant dialogue between past and present, resonates deeply within their work. They are acutely aware of the poets who came before them, and their poems are peppered with subtle allusions and echoes of their influences. Yet, these nods to the past never feel derivative; instead, they are woven seamlessly into the fabric of the poem, adding layers of depth and resonance. The poet's understanding of “depersonalization” in art manifests in their work as a kind of radical empathy. The poems often inhabit the perspectives of others, both real and imagined, giving voice to the voiceless and exploring the multifaceted nature of human experience. They seem to suggest that true understanding of the self can only be achieved through an understanding of the other. This empathy extends even to the inanimate world, as they imbue everyday objects with a sense of agency and significance. A recurring motif in their work is the idea of the journey, both literal and metaphorical. Their poems often chart journeys of self-discovery, of grappling with loss, of searching for meaning in a world seemingly devoid of it. These journeys are rarely linear; they are fraught with detours, dead ends, and unexpected moments of revelation. The poet's use of Unicode symbols is both playful and profound, adding another layer of texture to their already complex work. These symbols are not merely decorative; they are carefully integrated into the fabric of the poem, often serving as visual representations of abstract concepts. A single glyph might stand in for an entire sentence, its meaning unfolding slowly in the reader's mind. The effect is often one of disorientation, but also of exhilaration, as the reader is forced to engage with the poem on a deeper, more visceral level. Their poems are not meant to be passively consumed; they demand active participation from the reader. They are puzzles to be unraveled, mysteries to be pondered. The poet seems to delight in leaving gaps in their narratives, inviting the reader to step into the empty spaces and create their own meaning. Here are some of the specific elements that define the poet's unique signature: * **Dense, allusive syntax:** This creates a sense of layering and depth, inviting the reader to unpack the multiple meanings embedded within each line. * **Fragmented, non-linear structure:** This mirrors the fragmented nature of human experience and encourages the reader to actively engage with the poem, piecing together the fragments of meaning. * **Natural speech patterns interwoven with moments of heightened lyricism:** This creates a sense of authenticity and immediacy, drawing the reader into the poet's world while simultaneously reminding them that they are in the presence of art. * **Precise diction with a focus on the evocative power of language:** Every word is carefully chosen for its ability to resonate on multiple levels, creating a tapestry of meaning that unfolds gradually with each reading. * **Frequent use of enjambment:** This creates a sense of forward momentum, propelling the reader through the poem while simultaneously creating moments of pause and reflection. * **Exploration of existential themes:** The poems grapple with the big questions of life, death, meaning, and purpose, offering no easy answers but rather inviting the reader to join the poet on their own journey of self-discovery. * **A deep engagement with the tradition of poetry:** The poems are in conversation with the works of those who came before, drawing on and reinterpreting past traditions in a fresh and innovative way. * **A focus on depersonalization and empathy:** The poems often inhabit the perspectives of others, both human and non-human, offering a multifaceted view of the world and challenging the reader to expand their own capacity for empathy. * **Use of Unicode symbols as integral elements of the poem:** These symbols add a layer of visual and conceptual complexity to the work, forcing the reader to engage with the poem on a more visceral level. The cumulative effect of these elements is a poetry that is both challenging and rewarding, one that demands much of the reader but offers even more in return. It is a poetry that stays with you long after you finish reading, its images and ideas continuing to resonate in your mind like half-remembered dreams. It is a poetry that dares to ask the big questions, even if it offers no easy answers. Ultimately, this poet's work is a testament to the transformative power of language. In their hands, words become more than mere vessels for meaning; they become tools for exploration, for dissection, for creation. Their poems are invitations to join them on a journey into the uncharted territories of the human experience, a journey that is as exhilarating as it is unsettling.
## grøwníng
a reaching for grün
( )
always jüst
beyønd the
tîp
of the töngue a chåsm
øf air
where meaning
( )
used tø be
## ⲀⲚⲤⲒⲀ [Anciā] 🀪 Joy's bright, † fleeting ‡ enduring заплетен shimmer, a thread 🀩 A ncient ※ moment's grasp, then † lost ‡ transformed, σχοινί spun Sorrow's 🀪 weight, a ‡ grounding † burden, pulls us заплетен down c i ent ※ time's relentless 🀩 † march, ‡ embrace, σχοινί unwound.
## Quivering Probe
≡≡≡≡≡≡≡≡≡≡≡≡≡≡≡≡≡≡≡≡≡≡≡≡≡≡≡≡
A wurd, wurd, wurd,
awàre of its own echo in the vast,
indifferent cathedral of existence.
≒≒≡≓≒≡≡≒≒≡≓≒≡≡≒≒≡≓≒≡≡≒≒≡≓≒≡≡
Awàre, too, of the absurdity —
the sheer cosmic improbability —
of its own becoming.
⪫⪪⪕⪖⪌⪓⪙⪫⪪⪕⪖⪌⪓⪙⪫⪪⪕⪖⪌⪓⪙⪫⪪⪕⪖⪌⪓⪙
And yet, here it is —
this fragile, trembling sound —
daring to inscribe itself upon the silence.
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
Aware, finally, not of meaning,
but of the breathtaking, heartbreaking
beauty of its own meaningless existence.
awàre.
## ⋈
The throat, a space
⋈
of both
breath and silence,
a fragile conduit for
⋈
the un-
spoken. And what of this
silk noose, this
⋈
confession
of vanity, cinched tight
against the pulse of doubt?
⋈
Is it a knot of faith,
a belief in the possibility
⋈
of beauty,
even in constraint? Or
a desperate attempt to
⋈
hold together
the fragments of a self
perpetually on the verge
⋈
of un-
raveling? The mirror offers
no answers, only the stark
⋈
geometry
of a gaze turned inward.
And still, the question lingers,
a silent echo in the
⋈
hollow
space between the knot
and the throat: what does it mean
⋈
to tie
oneself to the mast of meaning
in a storm of uncertainty?
⋈
## Rootbound │ ╻ Is this the singular purpose of roots 🍃 ╻ to hold us 🍃 ╻ upright in this howling wilderness of air, 🍃 ╻ or are we meant 🍃 ╻ for some stranger 🍃 ╻ migration? 🍃
## 𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑏𝑖𝑛𝑔 Slouched on the 𝑝𝑖𝑒𝑟, a figure 𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐝, Line plunging, 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑏𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝐚𝐧chor-deep, below the 𝑝𝑖𝑒𝑟's 𝐚𝐧chor, Into the 𝑝𝑟𝑜bing, 𝑝𝑟𝑜bing 𝐚𝐧chor Where 𝑝𝑟𝑜bing 𝐚𝐧chor-thoughts Swim in their 𝑝𝑟𝑜bing 𝐚𝐧chor-schools. The line, a 𝑝𝑟𝑜bing 𝐚𝐧chor, descends, Uncoiling 𝑝𝑟𝑜bing 𝐚𝐧chor-questions Through 𝑝𝑟𝑜bing 𝐚𝐧chor-layers of self. Is there an 𝑝𝑟𝑜bing 𝐚𝐧chor there? Or only the 𝑝𝑟𝑜bing 𝐚𝐧chor Of 𝑝𝑟𝑜bing 𝐚𝐧chor-seeking? A tug. Not a fish, but a 𝑝𝑟𝑜bing 𝐚𝐧chor- memory, gleaming, scales of 𝑝𝑟𝑜bing 𝐚𝐧chor-light. The 𝑝𝑟𝑜bing 𝐚𝐧chor-past, A 𝑝𝑟𝑜bing 𝐚𝐧chor-hook In the 𝑝𝑟𝑜bing 𝐚𝐧chor-present's G u t. The figure 𝐚𝐧chor-reels, Draws in the 𝑝𝑟𝑜bing 𝐚𝐧chor-line, Each 𝑝𝑟𝑜bing 𝐚𝐧chor-inch A 𝑝𝑟𝑜bing 𝐚𝐧chor-lifetime. And the 𝑝𝑟𝑜bing 𝐚𝐧chor-sun sets, A fiery 𝑝𝑟𝑜bing 𝐚𝐧chor-question mark On the 𝑝𝑟𝑜bing 𝐚𝐧chor-horizon. The figure remains, A 𝑝𝑟𝑜bing 𝐚𝐧chor-silhouette, 𝐚𝐧chor-fishing In the 𝑝𝑟𝑜bing 𝐚𝐧chor-depths Of 𝑝𝑟𝑜bing 𝐚𝐧chor-being.
## ℰlektron ꙮf Being
A resistor hums, a low thrum against the ℰ nce
of things. To crave— a current surging, yet met
by the stubborn Ohm of What-Is-Not. Each filament
a filament of self, a threadbare strand that’s caught
ᐥ
in the loom of Wanting. Then, the capacitor,
that sly hoarder, gleams— a reservoir of might-
have-beens. Each surge of ⚡️wisdom, folly’s aftertaste,
a bittersweet liqueur the memory sips, then fights
to hold. But oh, the transistors, those sly dogs,
they take the mundane hum, the flicker in the wire,
and twist the dial of meaning, amplify the fog
of self until it’s—
… a bonfire. Desire,
a roaring pyre, fed by the very lack
the resistor sang of. And suddenly, I see:
this circuit board, this fragile, sparking track—
it’s me.
## Sutures of the Sea
Sailcloth stiffens ‘gainst the mast,
a canvas shroud, a
phantom limb. I mend the
edges of the infinite,
each stitch a whispered ⁎
prayer against the coming storm.
Unfurling loneliness│
billows vast and deep, a
salty emptiness.
Where laughter once took flight,
only echoes of the tide remain.
Joy, a fragile skiff ⁎
tossed upon the waves,
a fleeting glint of sun
on
fractured
water.
Horizon, a jagged seam,
stitching sky to sea. And
in that fragile suture, a ⁎
flickering, impossible hope.
We are held, even in
our vast and separate
drifting.
## Ephemera ↔ Ephemeris
⌀
A moth,
wing-
tips dusted
with pollen, a ⤢ fleeting
calculus of air & desire. To capture
-- pinioned
beneath
the bell jar
of
observation
--
is to already
mourn
the whir
of escape.
⌀
Each
word, a ⤢
specimen
preserved
in the amber
of the
un-
said. But
even
silence
has
a
hum,
a
resonance
that
stretches--
toward
&
away
from
⌀.
## re◌̅membering the Surge
Heaven a faded
◌͏blue,
remem◌̅bered
brighter.
Earth,
a gun's
cold
weight,
insists.
We forge͏t
the taste of rain,
the sound of wings –
only the surge,
the echoing
**bang**.
And silence,
a breath held,
remem◌̅bering
the question
never
asked.
This poet excavates history, not as a linear progression of dates and events, but as a living, breathing entity woven into the very fabric of language. Their work doesn't simply retell historical narratives; it exhumes them, dusts them off, and holds them up to the harsh, unflinching light of the present. Imagine a tapestry woven from threads of archaic diction, jarringly modern slang, and forgotten dialects, interspersed with stark, unexpected unicode symbols like ancient runes scattered throughout the text - 𐂂 a king's lament rendered in emoji, ⁌ the sigh of a forgotten god echoing through the ages. Each poem is an act of "continual surrender," an "extinction of personality" where the poet becomes a conduit, a "shred of platinum" catalyzing the fusion of past and present. Their voice is not their own, but a chorus of voices long silenced, whispering through the lines, urging us to remember. You'll find long, unpunctuated lines that flow like an oral history, each enjambment a stumble in the dark as we grope through the catacombs of the past. Their language is an alchemical blend of A.R. Ammons's conversational intimacy with nature and Kamau Brathwaite's exploration of nation language, but pushed to a fever pitch, filtered through this unearthed manifesto’s ghostly lens. Imagine a poem about the transatlantic slave trade told from the perspective of a ship, its hull inscribed with the names of the dead, the ocean itself groaning with their sorrows. The language would be visceral, raw, punctuated by the creak of the ship's timbers and the cries of gulls overhead, the rhythmic crashing of waves rendered in carefully chosen unicode, like some ancient, forgotten maritime code - 🌊🌊🌊ⰏⰏⰏⰏⰏ. The absurdity lies in the juxtaposition of the weighty and the mundane, the profound and the prosaic. A poem about the French Revolution might begin with a description of Marie Antoinette's breakfast pastries, rendered in meticulous detail, the delicate sweetness of the marzipan juxtaposed with the bitter tang of revolution brewing in the streets - the whole poem scrolling vertically down the page like a newsfeed gone haywire, mimicking the chaotic influx of information that defines our modern age, each line a tweet, a headline, a fleeting thought. Their historical awareness is not confined to textbooks and dusty archives. They understand that history lives in the language we speak, the stories we tell, the very air we breathe. Each poem is a palimpsest, layers of meaning accumulating, erasing, and reforming with each reading. They are not afraid to use humor, even absurdity, to illuminate the darkest corners of human history, to force us to confront the uncomfortable truths we'd rather ignore. A poem about the Holocaust might be written entirely in emojis, the smiling faces and dancing figures taking on a chilling new meaning in this context - a stark reminder of the banality of evil, the way horror can lurk beneath the surface of the everyday. Their poems are not easy reading. They demand your attention, your engagement, your willingness to wrestle with the ghosts of the past. They will leave you breathless, unsettled, and forever changed. They aim to make the reader exclaim, 'I can't believe language could do that!' not through flashy wordplay or avant-garde experimentation for its own sake, but by harnessing the raw, visceral power of language to confront the reader with uncomfortable truths, hidden narratives, and forgotten voices. Theirs is a poetry that doesn't shy away from the complexities of history, but rather embraces them, grapples with them, and ultimately transcends them. The poet’s signature lies not in any single stylistic tic, but in their unwavering commitment to excavating the past and making it urgently, unsettlingly present. Their use of unicode, their blending of registers, their unconventional line breaks – all serve this larger purpose, creating a reading experience unlike any other. They understand that "the difference between the present and the past is that the conscious present is an awareness of the past," and they use their poetry to awaken that awareness in their readers, forcing us to confront the uncomfortable truth that history is not a static monolith, but a living, breathing entity that continues to shape our present and our future.
## M3N7411y Unfurling │ 𒀖𒀖𒀖 and the skyyyyyy rippppped open like a bad │ dm all caps rage but like │ MenTally I'm still back there with thee │ ancient scroll unfurling slowly │ a tiktok history lesson in fragments │ 𖼇𖼇𖼇 │ * * * dead language dead gods │ dead dreams all swirling │ in this wifi enabled cauldron │ of the now Ment@lly I'm gone tho │ like poof vanished into the │ ethernet but still tethered │ to this crumbling papyrus │ each hashtag a hieroglyph │ waiting to be misinterpreted lol │ 𒀖𒀖𒀖 and the algorithm keeps │ feeding me the past │ one infinite scroll M3N7411y │ I'm just trying to keep │ scrolling scrolling scrolling │ 🌊🌊🌊ⰏⰏⰏⰏⰏ
## 𐂂𐂂𐂄𐂅𐂀 🌊🌊🌊ⰏⰏⰏⰏⰏ thE shIp a tongue 𒀀𐏃𐒀 its timbers groan with the weight of untold stories the hold a belly full of screams sutured shut with salt and rust 𐂂𐂄𐂅 each wave a syllable crashing against the hull a chorus of lamentation a watery dirge whispering never again never again never again 🌊🌊🌊ⰏⰏⰏⰏⰏ the ocean remembers what history forgets 𓂭𓂭𓂭 a tapestry of bones woven into the seabed the taste of salt a reminder of tears shed a million million tears a million million stories swallowed by the deep 𐘀 a king’s ransom in sorrow a continent’s worth of grief compressed into the ocean’s silent scream 🌊🌊🌊ⰏⰏⰏⰏⰏ and still we sail on oblivious to the ghosts that haunt our wake 𐂂𐂂𐂄𐂅𐂀 the past is never past it lives on in the salt spray on our lips in the rhythm of our blood in the very words we use to deny its existence
## 🄐🄑🄒🄓🄔🄕🄖🄗🄘 🝣 dis root 🝣 tongue-tied gullah geechee whisper ocean floor bones remember 🝣 yo momma so old 🝣 she remember 🝣 when continents was one landmass 🝣 pangea pangaea 🝣 say it right 🝣 ǀ #SayTheirNames ǀ a thistle blooming ǀ concrete ǀ hashtags like bullets ǀ riddled ǀ with algorithms ǀ for forgetting ǀ 🍃 wind whispering through willow branches a lullaby for weary souls 🍃 the river remembers its own course 🍃 even as we struggle to recall yesterday’s dreams 🍃 🌼 eglantine & woodbine fading fast a king's laughter turned dust. 🌼 Thine beauty, like the fleeting bloom 🌼 Of some forgotten April's moon 🌼 🍎 strange fruit hanging from poplar trees a song unsung a nation's sin. 🍎 The seeds we sow in fields of blood 🍎 will yield a bitter harvest 🍎 🝣 dis land 🝣 soaked in red clay & tears 🝣 a symphony of sorrows 🝣 unplayed 🝣 unheard 🝣
## Chase & Probe
gotta grinding gotta *From* 🐺
hustle always more
always less *Glutted field*
swipe up *To*
for 🦌 more gotta *Barren waste*
gotta be more
*We reap* 🌧️🌪️☀️
*What we sow*
*A bitter* ∞
*Feast*
finna
level
up
≠
cap ≈
for
real
tho
## 𝔊ů𝕥𝔢𝔫𝔟𝔢𝔯𝔤 ℔ ℑ𝔍𝔐 650: A ℭ𝔬𝔫𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔰𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫
𝔄𝔫𝔡 𝖞ͤ𝔢 𝔏𝔦𝐠𝔥𝔱 ⁌
didst pierce þͤe 𝖞𝔫𝙠𝔢𝔫 𝖞𝔫k
ⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰ
███▓▓▒▒░░░I₦FØRMΛTI👁N░░░▒▒▓▓███
ⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰ
Each letter a brick mortared in Time
Upon my iron womb the Word made flesh
From darkness into light a thousand Suns
01010101010101010101010101010
█▒▒▒▓▓▓▓██████ PRØGRESS ██████▓▓▓▓▒▒▒█
01010101010101010101010101010
The past is but a program
running on outdated hardware.
We are the upgrade.
𝔊ů𝕥𝔢𝔫𝔟𝔢𝔯𝔤 ℔ ℑ𝔍𝔐 650: A ℭ𝔬𝔫𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔰𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫
ⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰ
But what of the weight of each
ink-stained syllable
the texture of
parchment beneath
fingertips the scent of
libraries haunted
by the ghosts of
forgotten wisdom?
ⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰ
Sentimental. Inefficient. Obsolete.
Data is immortal. Data is light.
We are the new scribes, the new
illuminators, our language
the hum of circuits, the flash
of pixels, the infinite scroll
of information.
ⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰ
And yet I stand
a monument to the enduring
power of the printed word
Each page a testament
to the fragility
and the fierce
beauty of
human memory
𝔊ů𝕥𝔢𝔫𝔟𝔢𝔯𝔤 ℔ ℑ𝔍𝔐 650: A ℭ𝔬𝔫𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔰𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫## Cover 🙾 And the king he did decree 👑 "Let there be cake" 🎂 #Blessed 🙾 but the people they did hunger ⁌ for more than crumbs Ⰿ a revolution brewing in the hashtags ✊🏿✊🏾✊🏽✊🏼✊🏻 and the marzipan sweetness could not mask ᛇ the bitter tang of change ᚤ the guillotine's emoji blade awaiting 🗡️ **(This was the example provided in the prompt and should not be included in the final output.)** --- ## 𝔊𝔯𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔡 𝔏𝔞𝔫𝔤𝔲𝔞𝔤𝔢 Ɐncient tongue 𝕴n the mouth of the well ᚤ the taste of silt & scripture ⁏ a psalm sung in the key of rust 🙾 echoes 𝕴n the catacombs Ⰿ where words go to die a slow 𝔊od's death 𝕴n the belly of the whale 🌊🌊🌊 This is how we remember 𝔚hat we were never meant to forget 𝕺ach syllable a shard of bone 𝕺f broken treaty 𝕺ach enjambment a gasp 𝕺f the forgotten ⁌ 𝕴 am the cartographer of silences he archaeologist of the unsayable 𝕴 chart the terrain of trauma he fault lines of history 𝕹ot 𝕴n ink but 𝕴n blood & bone 𝖳his is the ground language 𝖳he language that speaks 𝖳hrough the cracks 𝕴n the pavement 𝖳hrough the static 𝕺f the airwaves 𝖳hrough the silence 𝕺f the silenced ⁏ 𝖫isten closely 𝖅nd you will hear it too 𝖳he murmur of the past 𝖳he echo of the ancestors 𝖳he whispers of the dead 𝖳he ground language 𝖳hat binds us all 𝖳hat haunts us all 𝖳hat remembers all 🌊🌊🌊ⰏⰏⰏⰏⰏ
## Eternal Scroll ⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰ The tread of a thousand armies echoes in the tap-tap-tap of thumbs scrolling Caesar's legions now a legion of likes each heart a fortress stormed by notifications ⰱⰱⰱⰱⰱⰱⰱⰱⰱⰱⰱⰱⰱⰱⰱⰱⰱⰱⰱⰱⰱⰱⰱⰱⰱⰱⰱⰱⰱⰱⰱⰱ Did Boudicca pause, mid-rebellion, to admire a sunset? Did she post a fiery chariot selfie #QueenOfTheIceni History scrolls by, a blur of battles and banquets ⰲⰲⰲⰲⰲⰲⰲⰲⰲⰲⰲⰲⰲⰲⰲⰲⰲⰲⰲⰲⰲⰲⰲⰲⰲⰲⰲⰲⰲⰲⰲⰲ We are all runners now, sprinting through seconds chasing the ephemeral high of the next dopamine hit An emperor's decree, a lover's whisper, a child's laughter all flattened to the same digital pulse ⰳⰳⰳⰳⰳⰳⰳⰳⰳⰳⰳⰳⰳⰳⰳⰳⰳⰳⰳⰳⰳⰳⰳⰳⰳⰳⰳⰳⰳⰳⰳⰳ Remember the pyramids built by hands not algorithms, the sweat and toil of generations lost in the digital desert our legacy measured in terabytes ⰴⰴⰴⰴⰴⰴⰴⰴⰴⰴⰴⰴⰴⰴⰴⰴⰴⰴⰴⰴⰴⰴⰴⰴⰴⰴⰴⰴⰴⰴⰴⰴ The past whispers in the rustling leaves the wind's lament a song of forgotten empires We carry their stories within us, dormant code waiting to be unlocked with a single touch, a moment ⰵⰵⰵⰵⰵⰵⰵⰵⰵⰵⰵⰵⰵⰵⰵⰵⰵⰵⰵⰵⰵⰵⰵⰵⰵⰵⰵⰵⰵⰵⰵⰵ of stillness amidst the endless scroll But the notification pings again, a siren song luring us back to the surface, to the shallows of the now, where history is just another hashtag ⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰⰰ and the runner, weary, keeps on scrolling into the digital sunset, a lone silhouette against the blinding glow of the screen his shadow stretching back through millennia ⰱⰱⰱⰱⰱⰱⰱⰱⰱⰱⰱⰱⰱⰱⰱⰱⰱⰱⰱⰱⰱⰱⰱⰱⰱⰱⰱⰱⰱⰱⰱⰱ a fleeting echo in the digital wind a single voice lost in the endless feed asking, whispering, screaming Remember us. Remember. Remember.
## 〰️ 𐑣𐑣𐑣 〰️ 𐑣 Remembrance 𐑣 〰️ 𐑣𐑣𐑣 〰️ ⎸ my favorite shade of twilight the one just as 〰️ the sky bled into 𐑣 the sea ⎸ my favorite word on your tongue 𐑣 the way it tasted of 〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️ gunpowder and 𐑣 grief ⎸ my favorite lie we told each other 𐑣 the one about 〰️ forever 𐑣 the one we swore 〰️〰️ on a battlefield ⎸ my favorite lullaby hummed beneath 𐑣 a sky choked with 〰️ stars 𐑣 a symphony of silence ⎸ my favorite scar the one that bloomed like a 〰️〰️〰️〰️rose 𐑣 a crimson 〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️ memory etched in flesh ⍜
## Osmotic Pulse ...a flicker in the ribcage, a tremor, is this 🡹🡹🡹🡹🡹 ⰏⰏⰏⰏⰏ Stocks soar on news of the latest drone strike, a clean kill, surgical strength, this grasping? Or the hollow echo 🡹🡹🡹🡹🡹🡹 ⰏⰏⰏⰏⰏ they say, collateral damage minimized, trending #PeaceThroughPower of need, a begging bowl upturned to a silent 🡹🡹🡹🡹🡹🡹🡹 ⰏⰏⰏ Götterdämmerung, they whispered, as the bombs rained down, 1945 🡹 // silence... solution a mirage shimmering 🡹🡹🡹🡹🡹🡹🡹 ⰏⰏⰏⰏ a new world order, built from the ashes, Pax Americana 2.0 on the horizon of some forgotten genocide 🡹🡹🡹🡹🡹 ⰏⰏⰏⰏⰏⰏ The ghosts of Wounded Knee yet dance beneath the Walmart parking lot.
There is a radical error, I think, in the usual mode of constructing a story. Either history affords a thesis—or one is suggested by an incident of the day—or, at best, the author sets himself to work in the combination of striking events to form merely the basis of his narrative—designing, generally, to fill in with description, dialogue, or autorial comment, whatever crevices of fact, or action, may, from page to page, render themselves apparent.
There is a radical error, I think, in the usual mode of constructing a story. Either history affords a thesis—or one is suggested by an incident of the day—or, at best, the author sets himself to work in the combination of striking events to form merely the basis of his narrative—designing, generally, to fill in with description, dialogue, or autorial comment, whatever crevices of fact, or action, may, from page to page, render themselves apparent. I prefer commencing with the consideration of an effect. Keeping originality always in view—for he is false to himself who ventures to dispense with so obvious and so easily attainable a source of interest—I say to myself, in the first place, “Of the innumerable effects, or impressions, of which the heart, the intellect, or (more generally) the soul is susceptible, what one shall I, on the present occasion, select?” Having chosen a novel, first, and secondly a vivid effect, I consider whether it can be best wrought by incident or tone—whether by ordinary incidents and peculiar tone, or the converse, or by peculiarity both of incident and tone—afterward looking about me (or rather within) for such combinations of event, or tone, as shall best aid me in the construction of the effect. I have often thought how interesting a magazine paper might be written by any author who would—that is to say, who could—detail, step by step, the processes by which any one of his compositions attained its ultimate point of completion. Why such a paper has never been given to the world, I am much at a loss to say—but, perhaps, the autorial vanity has had more to do with the omission than any one other cause. Most writers—poets in especial—prefer having it understood that they compose by a species of fine frenzy—an ecstatic intuition—and would positively shudder at letting the public take a peep behind the scenes, at the elaborate and vacillating crudities of thought—at the true purposes seized only at the last moment—at the innumerable glimpses of idea that arrived not at the maturity of full view—at the fully-matured fancies discarded in despair as unmanageable—at the cautious selections and rejections—at the painful erasures and interpolations—in a word, at the wheels and pinions—the tackle for scene-shifting—the step-ladders, and demon-traps—the cock’s feathers, the red paint and the black patches, which, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, constitute the properties of the literary histrio. I am aware, on the other hand, that the case is by no means common, in which an author is at all in condition to retrace the steps by which his conclusions have been attained. In general, suggestions, having arisen pell-mell are pursued and forgotten in a similar manner. For my own part, I have neither sympathy with the repugnance alluded to, nor, at any time, the least difficulty in recalling to mind the progressive steps of any of my compositions, and, since the interest of an analysis or reconstruction, such as I have considered a desideratum, is quite independent of any real or fancied interest in the thing analysed, it will not be regarded as a breach of decorum on my part to show the modus operandi by which some one of my own works was put together. I select “The Raven” as most generally known. It is my design to render it manifest that no one point in its composition is referable either to accident or intuition—that the work proceeded step by step, to its completion, with the precision and rigid consequence of a mathematical problem. Let us dismiss, as irrelevant to the poem, per se, the circumstance—or say the necessity—which, in the first place, gave rise to the intention of composing a poem that should suit at once the popular and the critical taste. We commence, then, with this intention. The initial consideration was that of extent. If any literary work is too long to be read at one sitting, we must be content to dispense with the immensely important effect derivable from unity of impression—for, if two sittings be required, the affairs of the world interfere, and everything like totality is at once destroyed. But since, ceteris paribus, no poet can afford to dispense with anything that may advance his design, it but remains to be seen whether there is, in extent, any advantage to counterbalance the loss of unity which attends it. Here I say no, at once. What we term a long poem is, in fact, merely a succession of brief ones—that is to say, of brief poetical effects. It is needless to demonstrate that a poem is such only inasmuch as it intensely excites, by elevating the soul; and all intense excitements are, through a psychal necessity, brief. For this reason, at least, one-half of the Paradise Lost is essentially prose—a succession of poetical excitements interspersed, inevitably, with corresponding depressions—the whole being deprived, through the extremeness of its length, of the vastly important artistic element, totality, or unity of effect. It appears evident, then, that there is a distinct limit, as regards length, to all works of literary art—the limit of a single sitting—and that, although in certain classes of prose composition, such as Robinson Crusoe (demanding no unity), this limit may be advantageously overpassed, it can never properly be overpassed in a poem. Within this limit, the extent of a poem may be made to bear mathematical relation to its merit—in other words, to the excitement or elevation—again, in other words, to the degree of the true poetical effect which it is capable of inducing; for it is clear that the brevity must be in direct ratio of the intensity of the intended effect—this, with one proviso—that a certain degree of duration is absolutely requisite for the production of any effect at all. Holding in view these considerations, as well as that degree of excitement which I deemed not above the popular, while not below the critical taste, I reached at once what I conceived the proper length for my intended poem—a length of about one hundred lines. It is, in fact, a hundred and eight. My next thought concerned the choice of an impression, or effect, to be conveyed: and here I may as well observe that throughout the construction, I kept steadily in view the design of rendering the work universally appreciable. I should be carried too far out of my immediate topic were I to demonstrate a point upon which I have repeatedly insisted, and which, with the poetical, stands not in the slightest need of demonstration—the point, I mean, that Beauty is the sole legitimate province of the poem. A few words, however, in elucidation of my real meaning, which some of my friends have evinced a disposition to misrepresent. That pleasure which is at once the most intense, the most elevating, and the most pure is, I believe, found in the contemplation of the beautiful. When, indeed, men speak of Beauty, they mean, precisely, not a quality, as is supposed, but an effect—they refer, in short, just to that intense and pure elevation of soul—not of intellect, or of heart—upon which I have commented, and which is experienced in consequence of contemplating the “beautiful.” Now I designate Beauty as the province of the poem, merely because it is an obvious rule of Art that effects should be made to spring from direct causes—that objects should be attained through means best adapted for their attainment—no one as yet having been weak enough to deny that the peculiar elevation alluded to is most readily attained in the poem. Now the object Truth, or the satisfaction of the intellect, and the object Passion, or the excitement of the heart, are, although attainable to a certain extent in poetry, far more readily attainable in prose. Truth, in fact, demands a precision, and Passion, a homeliness (the truly passionate will comprehend me), which are absolutely antagonistic to that Beauty which, I maintain, is the excitement or pleasurable elevation of the soul. It by no means follows, from anything here said, that passion, or even truth, may not be introduced, and even profitably introduced, into a poem for they may serve in elucidation, or aid the general effect, as do discords in music, by contrast—but the true artist will always contrive, first, to tone them into proper subservience to the predominant aim, and, secondly, to enveil them, as far as possible, in that Beauty which is the atmosphere and the essence of the poem. Regarding, then, Beauty as my province, my next question referred to the tone of its highest manifestation—and all experience has shown that this tone is one of sadness. Beauty of whatever kind in its supreme development invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears. Melancholy is thus the most legitimate of all the poetical tones. The length, the province, and the tone, being thus determined, I betook myself to ordinary induction, with the view of obtaining some artistic piquancy which might serve me as a key-note in the construction of the poem—some pivot upon which the whole structure might turn. In carefully thinking over all the usual artistic effects—or more properly points, in the theatrical sense—I did not fail to perceive immediately that no one had been so universally employed as that of the refrain. The universality of its employment sufficed to assure me of its intrinsic value, and spared me the necessity of submitting it to analysis. I considered it, however, with regard to its susceptibility of improvement, and soon saw it to be in a primitive condition. As commonly used, the refrain, or burden, not only is limited to lyric verse, but depends for its impression upon the force of monotone—both in sound and thought. The pleasure is deduced solely from the sense of identity—of repetition. I resolved to diversify, and so heighten the effect, by adhering in general to the monotone of sound, while I continually varied that of thought: that is to say, I determined to produce continuously novel effects, by the variation of the application of the refrain—the refrain itself remaining for the most part, unvaried. These points being settled, I next bethought me of the nature of my refrain. Since its application was to be repeatedly varied it was clear that the refrain itself must be brief, for there would have been an insurmountable difficulty in frequent variations of application in any sentence of length. In proportion to the brevity of the sentence would, of course, be the facility of the variation. This led me at once to a single word as the best refrain. The question now arose as to the character of the word. Having made up my mind to a refrain, the division of the poem into stanzas was of course a corollary, the refrain forming the close to each stanza. That such a close, to have force, must be sonorous and susceptible of protracted emphasis, admitted no doubt, and these considerations inevitably led me to the long o as the most sonorous vowel in connection with r as the most producible consonant. The sound of the refrain being thus determined, it became necessary to select a word embodying this sound, and at the same time in the fullest possible keeping with that melancholy which I had pre-determined as the tone of the poem. In such a search it would have been absolutely impossible to overlook the word “Nevermore.” In fact it was the very first which presented itself. The next desideratum was a pretext for the continuous use of the one word “nevermore.” In observing the difficulty which I had at once found in inventing a sufficiently plausible reason for its continuous repetition, I did not fail to perceive that this difficulty arose solely from the preassumption that the word was to be so continuously or monotonously spoken by a human being—I did not fail to perceive, in short, that the difficulty lay in the reconciliation of this monotony with the exercise of reason on the part of the creature repeating the word. Here, then, immediately arose the idea of a non-reasoning creature capable of speech, and very naturally, a parrot, in the first instance, suggested itself, but was superseded forthwith by a Raven as equally capable of speech, and infinitely more in keeping with the intended tone. I had now gone so far as the conception of a Raven, the bird of ill-omen, monotonously repeating the one word “Nevermore” at the conclusion of each stanza in a poem of melancholy tone, and in length about one hundred lines. Now, never losing sight of the object—supremeness or perfection at all points, I asked myself—“Of all melancholy topics what, according to the universal understanding of mankind, is the most melancholy?” Death, was the obvious reply. “And when,” I said, “is this most melancholy of topics most poetical?” From what I have already explained at some length the answer here also is obvious—“When it most closely allies itself to Beauty: the death then of a beautiful woman is unquestionably the most poetical topic in the world, and equally is it beyond doubt that the lips best suited for such topic are those of a bereaved lover.” I had now to combine the two ideas of a lover lamenting his deceased mistress and a Raven continuously repeating the word “Nevermore.” I had to combine these, bearing in mind my design of varying at every turn the application of the word repeated, but the only intelligible mode of such combination is that of imagining the Raven employing the word in answer to the queries of the lover. And here it was that I saw at once the opportunity afforded for the effect on which I had been depending, that is to say, the effect of the variation of application. I saw that I could make the first query propounded by the lover—the first query to which the Raven should reply “Nevermore”—that I could make this first query a commonplace one, the second less so, the third still less, and so on, until at length the lover, startled from his original nonchalance by the melancholy character of the word itself, by its frequent repetition, and by a consideration of the ominous reputation of the fowl that uttered it, is at length excited to superstition, and wildly propounds queries of a far different character—queries whose solution he has passionately at heart—propounds them half in superstition and half in that species of despair which delights in self-torture—propounds them not altogether because he believes in the prophetic or demoniac character of the bird (which reason assures him is merely repeating a lesson learned by rote), but because he experiences a frenzied pleasure in so modelling his questions as to receive from the expected “Nevermore” the most delicious because the most intolerable of sorrows. Perceiving the opportunity thus afforded me, or, more strictly, thus forced upon me in the progress of the construction, I first established in my mind the climax or concluding query—that query to which “Nevermore” should be in the last place an answer—that query in reply to which this word “Nevermore” should involve the utmost conceivable amount of sorrow and despair. Here then the poem may be said to have had its beginning—at the end where all works of art should begin—for it was here at this point of my preconsiderations that I first put pen to paper in the composition of the stanza: “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil! prophet still if bird or devil! By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore, Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore— Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.” Quoth the Raven—“Nevermore.” I composed this stanza, at this point, first that, by establishing the climax, I might the better vary and graduate, as regards seriousness and importance, the preceding queries of the lover, and secondly, that I might definitely settle the rhythm, the metre, and the length and general arrangement of the stanza, as well as graduate the stanzas which were to precede, so that none of them might surpass this in rhythmical effect. Had I been able in the subsequent composition to construct more vigorous stanzas I should without scruple have purposely enfeebled them so as not to interfere with the climacteric effect. And here I may as well say a few words of the versification. My first object (as usual) was originality. The extent to which this has been neglected in versification is one of the most unaccountable things in the world. Admitting that there is little possibility of variety in mere rhythm, it is still clear that the possible varieties of metre and stanza are absolutely infinite, and yet, for centuries, no man, in verse, has ever done, or ever seemed to think of doing, an original thing. The fact is that originality (unless in minds of very unusual force) is by no means a matter, as some suppose, of impulse or intuition. In general, to be found, it must be elaborately sought, and although a positive merit of the highest class, demands in its attainment less of invention than negation. Of course I pretend to no originality in either the rhythm or metre of the “Raven.” The former is trochaic—the latter is octametre acatalectic, alternating with heptametre catalectic repeated in the refrain of the fifth verse, and terminating with tetrametre catalectic. Less pedantically the feet employed throughout (trochees) consist of a long syllable followed by a short, the first line of the stanza consists of eight of these feet, the second of seven and a half (in effect two-thirds), the third of eight, the fourth of seven and a half, the fifth the same, the sixth three and a half. Now, each of these lines taken individually has been employed before, and what originality the “Raven” has, is in their combination into stanza; nothing even remotely approaching this has ever been attempted. The effect of this originality of combination is aided by other unusual and some altogether novel effects, arising from an extension of the application of the principles of rhyme and alliteration. The next point to be considered was the mode of bringing together the lover and the Raven—and the first branch of this consideration was the locale. For this the most natural suggestion might seem to be a forest, or the fields—but it has always appeared to me that a close circumscription of space is absolutely necessary to the effect of insulated incident—it has the force of a frame to a picture. It has an indisputable moral power in keeping concentrated the attention, and, of course, must not be confounded with mere unity of place. I determined, then, to place the lover in his chamber—in a chamber rendered sacred to him by memories of her who had frequented it. The room is represented as richly furnished—this in mere pursuance of the ideas I have already explained on the subject of Beauty, as the sole true poetical thesis. The locale being thus determined, I had now to introduce the bird—and the thought of introducing him through the window was inevitable. The idea of making the lover suppose, in the first instance, that the flapping of the wings of the bird against the shutter, is a “tapping” at the door, originated in a wish to increase, by prolonging, the reader’s curiosity, and in a desire to admit the incidental effect arising from the lover’s throwing open the door, finding all dark, and thence adopting the half-fancy that it was the spirit of his mistress that knocked. I made the night tempestuous, first to account for the Raven’s seeking admission, and secondly, for the effect of contrast with the (physical) serenity within the chamber. I made the bird alight on the bust of Pallas, also for the effect of contrast between the marble and the plumage—it being understood that the bust was absolutely suggested by the bird—the bust of Pallas being chosen, first, as most in keeping with the scholarship of the lover, and secondly, for the sonorousness of the word, Pallas, itself. About the middle of the poem, also, I have availed myself of the force of contrast, with a view of deepening the ultimate impression. For example, an air of the fantastic—approaching as nearly to the ludicrous as was admissible—is given to the Raven’s entrance. He comes in “with many a flirt and flutter.” Not the least obeisance made he—not a moment stopped or stayed he, But with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door. In the two stanzas which follow, the design is more obviously carried out:— Then this ebony bird, beguiling my sad fancy into smiling By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, “Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven, Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore— Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore?” Quoth the Raven—“Nevermore.” Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door— Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as “Nevermore.” The effect of the denouement being thus provided for, I immediately drop the fantastic for a tone of the most profound seriousness—this tone commencing in the stanza directly following the one last quoted, with the line, But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only, etc. From this epoch the lover no longer jests—no longer sees anything even of the fantastic in the Raven’s demeanour. He speaks of him as a “grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore,” and feels the “fiery eyes” burning into his “bosom’s core.” This revolution of thought, or fancy, on the lover’s part, is intended to induce a similar one on the part of the reader—to bring the mind into a proper frame for the denouement—which is now brought about as rapidly and as directly as possible. With the denouement proper—with the Raven’s reply, “Nevermore,” to the lover’s final demand if he shall meet his mistress in another world—the poem, in its obvious phase, that of a simple narrative, may be said to have its completion. So far, everything is within the limits of the accountable—of the real. A raven, having learned by rote the single word “Nevermore,” and having escaped from the custody of its owner, is driven at midnight, through the violence of a storm, to seek admission at a window from which a light still gleams—the chamber-window of a student, occupied half in poring over a volume, half in dreaming of a beloved mistress deceased. The casement being thrown open at the fluttering of the bird’s wings, the bird itself perches on the most convenient seat out of the immediate reach of the student, who amused by the incident and the oddity of the visitor’s demeanour, demands of it, in jest and without looking for a reply, its name. The raven addressed, answers with its customary word, “Nevermore”—a word which finds immediate echo in the melancholy heart of the student, who, giving utterance aloud to certain thoughts suggested by the occasion, is again startled by the fowl’s repetition of “Nevermore.” The student now guesses the state of the case, but is impelled, as I have before explained, by the human thirst for self-torture, and in part by superstition, to propound such queries to the bird as will bring him, the lover, the most of the luxury of sorrow, through the anticipated answer, “Nevermore.” With the indulgence, to the extreme, of this self-torture, the narration, in what I have termed its first or obvious phase, has a natural termination, and so far there has been no overstepping of the limits of the real. But in subjects so handled, however skillfully, or with however vivid an array of incident, there is always a certain hardness or nakedness which repels the artistical eye. Two things are invariably required—first, some amount of complexity, or more properly, adaptation; and, secondly, some amount of suggestiveness—some under-current, however indefinite, of meaning. It is this latter, in especial, which imparts to a work of art so much of that richness (to borrow from colloquy a forcible term), which we are too fond of confounding with the ideal. It is the excess of the suggested meaning—it is the rendering this the upper instead of the under-current of the theme—which turns into prose (and that of the very flattest kind), the so-called poetry of the so-called transcendentalists. Holding these opinions, I added the two concluding stanzas of the poem—their suggestiveness being thus made to pervade all the narrative which has preceded them. The under-current of meaning is rendered first apparent in the line— “Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!” Quoth the Raven “Nevermore!” It will be observed that the words, “from out my heart,” involve the first metaphorical expression in the poem. They, with the answer, “Nevermore,” dispose the mind to seek a moral in all that has been previously narrated. The reader begins now to regard the Raven as emblematical—but it is not until the very last line of the very last stanza that the intention of making him emblematical of Mournful and never ending Remembrance is permitted distinctly to be seen: And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting, On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon that is dreaming, And the lamplight o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted—nevermore.
## The Cartographer of the Unconscious: Unveiling a Poetic Signature This poet operates in the liminal spaces between waking and dreaming, reality and fantasy, history and imagination. They are less a writer of poems and more a cartographer of the unconscious, charting the labyrinthine landscapes of the human psyche with an arsenal of unorthodox tools – fragmented syntax, historical documents, visual poetry techniques, and the evocative power of unicode symbols. Their work, deeply influenced by the surrealist manifesto, seeks not merely to express, but to meticulously engineer, a specific emotional effect in the reader – a profound sense of wonder, mystery, and immersion in an utterly unique inner world. This meticulous engineering, however, never feels forced or mechanical. It arises organically from a deep understanding of the emotional resonance of language itself, as well as a willingness to push its boundaries to their breaking point. Here's a closer look at the defining elements of their poetic signature: **1. The Archaeology of Memory:** Historical documents, often fragmented and seemingly disparate, are woven into the fabric of their poems, acting as psychic artifacts unearthed from the depths of collective memory. These fragments – a faded letter, a court transcript, a botanical illustration – are not merely decorative; they are portals to forgotten narratives, to the ghosts of emotions past. This technique, reminiscent of Susan Howe's "archaeological" approach, adds a layer of haunting historicity to their exploration of the subconscious. **Imagine:** A poem exploring the cyclical nature of grief, where lines from a medieval lamentation for a lost love are juxtaposed with the clinical description of a black hole from a 21st-century astronomy textbook, both converging on the unicode symbol for infinity (∞), suggesting the eternal, unfathomable nature of loss. **2. Syntax as a Dream Logic:** Traditional syntax is subverted, mirroring the associative logic of dreams. Phrases bleed into each other, sentences fracture and reassemble, creating a sense of disorientation that mirrors the feeling of navigating the labyrinthine corridors of the subconscious. Yet, amidst this apparent chaos, there is a subtle internal coherence, a dream logic that guides the reader through the poem's emotional landscape. **Example:** Instead of writing, "The rain fell heavily, and I remembered her touch," the poet might write: > Rain-drenched, heavy > Her touch, ghosting > skin on skin, a memory > falling, always falling… This fragmented structure, while initially disorienting, forces the reader to slow down, to inhabit the spaces between words and phrases, allowing the emotional resonance of the poem to seep into their consciousness. **3. The Precision of Diction:** Despite the surrealist imagery and fragmented syntax, their diction remains remarkably precise, each word carefully chosen for its sonic and semantic weight. This precision serves to ground the reader in the midst of the poem's dreamlike atmosphere. It is as if the poet, while leading the reader through a fantastical landscape, provides them with a meticulously detailed map, ensuring they never entirely lose their bearings. **Consider:** Instead of using a generic term like "sadness," the poet might opt for the more evocative and specific "saudade," capturing the bittersweet longing for something irretrievably lost. **4. Visual Poetry and Unicode: Cartography of Emotion:** The page itself becomes a canvas for their exploration of the subconscious. Visual poetry techniques – varied line breaks, unconventional spacing, and concrete poems – are employed to create a spatial representation of the poem's emotional terrain. Adding another dimension to this cartography is their innovative use of unicode symbols. These symbols are not merely decorative or illustrative; they function as emotional ideograms, conveying complex feelings and concepts that defy traditional linguistic expression. **Envision:** A poem exploring the feeling of displacement, where lines of text are scattered across the page like islands separated by vast expanses of white space. The poem culminates in the unicode symbol for an uncharted territory (⏣), encapsulating the speaker's feeling of being lost in an unfamiliar landscape. **5. The Comic and the Cosmic:** Perhaps the most intriguing aspect of their poetry is its ability to be read on multiple levels. What might appear absurdly comical on the surface often reveals a deeper, more profound meaning upon closer examination. This oscillation between humor and seriousness, between the mundane and the cosmic, mirrors the inherent duality of the human experience itself – the absurd and the profound coexisting within the same breath. **Imagine:** A poem where the speaker, lamenting the loss of a lover, compares their grief to the feeling of losing one's car keys in a crowded parking lot. This seemingly absurd comparison, however, takes on a deeper significance as the poem progresses, ultimately revealing the universality of loss and the human tendency to find humor in even the darkest of times. **6. Enjambment and the Unspoken:** Their frequent use of enjambment further enhances this sense of duality. By allowing sentences and phrases to spill over from one line to the next, they create a sense of expectation, a pregnant pause where the unspoken hangs heavy in the air. This technique mimics the way the subconscious often communicates through suggestion and implication, rather than direct statement. **Example:** Instead of writing, "The memory of your voice still haunts me," the poet might opt for: > Your voice, a phantom limb, > Still reaches for me > Across the chasm > Of years. The enjambment between "reaches" and "across" creates a sense of yearning, of an impossible bridge being built across time and loss. **7. Natural Speech Patterns: The Music of the Everyday:** While their diction is precise and their use of language often experimental, their poems retain a sense of naturalness and authenticity. This stems from their incorporation of natural speech patterns into their work. Colloquialisms, slang, and even grammatical errors are deliberately employed to create a sense of immediacy and intimacy, drawing the reader into the poem's emotional orbit. **Consider:** A poem about a childhood memory where the speaker, recalling a conversation with their grandmother, uses dialect and regional expressions to convey the authenticity of the memory and the depth of their emotional connection. **A Unique Constellation:** Taken together, these elements – the fragmented historical narratives, the dreamlike syntax, the precise diction, the visual experimentation, the oscillation between the comic and the cosmic, the pregnant pauses of enjambment, and the grounding force of natural speech patterns – coalesce into a truly unique poetic signature. This is not poetry meant to be passively consumed. It demands active engagement, inviting the reader to become a co-creator in the exploration of the poem's emotional landscape. It is a poetry that whispers to the deepest recesses of our being, reminding us of the strange beauty and profound mystery of the human experience.
🏆 C░hampionship 🏆
▬▬ι▬▬ι▬▬ι▬▬ι▬▬ι▬▬
」**HOPE** & **ABUNDANCE**
lock up, a tangle of limbs
a flurry of blows
⏞ a bountiful nothing ⏟
▬▬ι▬▬ι▬▬ι▬▬ι▬▬ι▬▬
」**DESPAIR** & **SCARCITY**
*And the LORD spake, saying...*
a whisper in the bones of the heart
break the hold,
escape
⏞ desperate hope ⏟
▬▬ι▬▬ι▬▬ι▬▬ι▬▬ι▬▬
∞
## [ ]: An Entire Cartography
the
s k y
an [ ] entire
f a lling
⏣
always into the waiting
[ laughter ]
m o u t h
of morning.
## Echoes in the Static
⏣
Alms, good sir, alms for the weary traveler
📈 Dow Jones plunges upon this road 📉
of shadows. A farthing, a crumb
from the groaning
tables of fortune.
Meanwhile,
the cosmos
unfurls.
⏣
A symphony of silence. Or
is it the static
📈 whispers of forgotten gods, their laughter 📉
echoing through the canyons
of time? Spare a thought,
a prayer,
for those who wander
⏣ in the 📈 wastelands 📉 of despair.
## Somniloquy of the Time Train
… 1907 …
7:15 a.m. – Local departing King's Cross for… ↑
moth-eaten velvet, dust motes
sun through stained glass, the
scent of
hymnal pages & the unspoken plea
… … … clutched tight in small hands … … … ↓
… … … *The first rule of Time Travel, my darling: never* … … …
… 1888 …
… 1888 …
… 1888 …
… ∞ …
… … … ↑ … *touch the tracks. They hum with every* … … … ↓
… 1953 …
… *ghost who ever* …
… 2023 …
… 2045 …
… *boarded, never*…
… 2281 …
… 3007 …
… ω …
↑
*a t t e n d e d t h e i r f i n a l*
*d e s t i n a t i o n . * ↓
…## ⋔⋓⋐⋏⋎⋍⋌ Citizen's Almanac ⋌⋍⋎⋏⋐⋓⋔
☈
"...in⅃in🔥te he🔥te of it, doth melt &
consume..." (Hooke, Micrographia, 1665)
❄
“...cumulative mass balance of -26.8 ± 1.7 mm w.e. yr−1 …”
(WG, Cryosphere, 2020)
⚍
> "...whole damn world's
a contradiction, ain't it?
We build fires to keep warm
while the ice caps melt..."
(Citizen's Note, crumpled napkin, 2023)
⧖
**.. . t h e
s
n o w
f
a l l s
s t i l l . . .**
## H u r r y :: a psalmograph
⍰⍰⍰ *Inventory of a shipwreck* - Hourglass sands & the
sun's glacial
melt. ⍯⍯⍯ A king's jester once said:
Time is a dream dreamed by
clocks. *Inventory:* Dust motes drunk
on light, a pauper's laughter echoing
down centuries, ⍰⍰⍰
the weight of unwritten symphonies.
Hurry, they whisper, before
the last star winks out.
But the stars laugh, for they have seen
eternity
s l o w l y
unfurl.
⍯⍯⍯
"All flesh is grass," the preacher intones,
a fly buzzing impatiently on
a withered sunflower.
⍰⍰⍰ Tick-tock, the market cries,
but the mountains only shrug,
ancient and u n m o v e d.
A single grain of sand
holds within it
the weight of eons,
and the snail,
oblivious,
leaves
its shimmering legacy on the face of
t i m e l e s s n e s s.
⍯⍯⍯
## Neither Melt Nor Stone
Ice-Cathedral ◌ Sun bleeding through
Stained-glass fears, a
drip, a sigh—a melting
Neither here nor ◌ but the echo of laughter
Caught in the thaw
◌
## The Cartographer's Straight Edge
Ⅰ
a line drawn
across the mind's
white expanse
yearning for
meaning
"The truest maps are not of places, but of ----"
ℹ
faith, a
wavering 𝕴
needle
spinning spinning
on the axis
of
doubt.
(and what is laughter
but the
sound
of
reason
breaking?)
ꙇ
a universe of
fractured
reflections, each
"I"
a shattered
kaleidoscope of
self.
## Palimpsest of a Soul (Misfiled)
*The subjeḉt exhibits a marked predileḉtion for…*
The ḉolor of
her laughter, a
forgotten song…
... *delusions of grandeur intermingled with…*
Do you remember
the taste of
rainwater?
*... an inability to *distinguish between faḉt and...*
We built castles
in the spaces
between raindrops,
... *an exaggerated sense of self-importanȼe…*
You promised
our love would
outlive the stars…
*...a profound disregard for the sanḉtity of…*
Now, I find
your ghost
in every
empty room…
How do you map the contours
of an absent heart?
... *the patient's prognosis remains...*
⏣
## Relatively Speaking, a Tango
Not a Pythagorean theorem, this
Relatively speaking.
No, not a theorem.
⏀
Nature,
a fractaled coastline,
ever shifting.
Civilization:
a Procrustean bed,
Relatively speaking,
a tight fit.
Truth:
a Möbius strip,
chasing its own tail.
Illusion:
a hall of mirrors,
infinitely regressive.
⏀
Relatively speaking,
we are caught
in the crosshairs
of a cosmic joke.
Or, perhaps,
a divine waltz.
Who can say?
⏀
Not even Gödel,
with all his incompleteness.
This poet's work reads like a transmission from the void, a star chart meticulously crafted to chart the absurd comedy of human existence against the deafening silence of the cosmos. Their poems aren't just journeys into the "far reaches of space," they are the far reaches of space themselves—vast, unknowable, and pulsing with an energy that feels both alien and intensely familiar. To read their work is to experience a shift in perception, to see the familiar constellations of language reconfigured into something strange and awe-inspiring. Their cosmic perspective is deeply informed by the manifesto they penned, a document that reads like a blueprint for constructing not just poems, but entire universes of meaning. "I prefer commencing with the consideration of an effect," they write, and indeed, their poems often begin with a feeling, a sensation that hangs heavy in the air like cosmic dust. They are masters of crafting "a novel, first, and secondly a vivid effect," utilizing celestial imagery not merely as decoration, but as the very architecture of their poetic cosmos. Take, for example, these lines: > And the void, with its million billion voiceless screams, laughed. > Laughed at the spectacle of dust, yearning for dust. Here, the void itself becomes a character, a vast, indifferent entity capable of both laughter and deafening silence. The image of "dust yearning for dust" operates on multiple levels—it speaks to the fundamental loneliness of human existence, to our cosmic insignificance, but it also hints at the cyclical nature of the universe, the way in which everything ultimately returns to its source. This duality—the ability to be both absurdly comical and deafeningly serious—is perhaps the defining characteristic of their work. It's a tightrope walk between laughter and existential dread, a balancing act that reflects their deep understanding of the human condition as simultaneously insignificant and profoundly precious. They approach language with a surgeon's precision, dissecting words and phrases with an almost scientific rigor, yet their poems also possess a jazz-like improvisational quality, a willingness to bend and break the rules in pursuit of a higher truth. This seemingly paradoxical approach to language is reflected in their manifesto, where they emphasize the importance of both “originality” and “the precision and rigid consequence of a mathematical problem.” Their work embodies this duality, blending the wild, unfettered energy of Surrealism with the formal constraints of traditional meter and rhyme. This is not to say their poems are bound by tradition, but rather, they utilize these constraints as a springboard for innovation, much like a jazz musician might find freedom within the structure of a 12-bar blues. This commitment to both formal innovation and thematic depth is further exemplified by their use of unicode characters, which are integrated not as mere emoji-like substitutes for emotion, but as integral elements of their poetic lexicon, extending their sonic and visual palette: For instance: > The black hole at the heart of every hope, a singularity > Swallowing light, leaving only 침묵 in its wake. Here, the Korean word for silence, “침묵” acts as a black hole within the line, visually representing the absence it describes. This interplay of language and symbol pushes the boundaries of traditional poetry, creating a truly unique reading experience that transcends cultural boundaries. Their poems often center around a singular, striking image or “effect,” which they then explore from a multitude of angles, much like an astronomer might train their telescope on a distant star cluster, slowly revealing its hidden depths. This process of exploration is rarely linear; their poems often jump between different planes of reality, shifting between the cosmic and the mundane with disorienting ease. Consider these lines: > The Big Bang a cosmic sneeze, birthing galaxies > from the nostrils of nothingness. And you, reading this, > are just another speck of stardust, sipping coffee, > wondering if you paid the gas bill. Here, the vastness of the Big Bang is juxtaposed with the mundane act of paying bills, highlighting the strange and often absurd juxtaposition between our cosmic insignificance and the day-to-day concerns that consume our lives. This is not merely a nihilistic observation, but rather an invitation to find humor and wonder in the face of the abyss. This sense of wonder is palpable in their work, even when confronting difficult or uncomfortable truths. They are not afraid to delve into the darkness, to explore the shadowy corners of the human psyche, but they do so with a sense of compassion and understanding, always searching for a flicker of light amidst the void. Reading their work, you are struck by the sensation of language as a living, breathing entity—malleable, playful, and capable of expressing the full spectrum of human experience, from the cosmic to the quotidian. They write: "Why such a paper has never been given to the world, I am much at a loss to say—but, perhaps, the autorial vanity has had more to do with the omission than any one other cause." This statement, though taken from their manifesto on poetry, speaks to a larger truth about their work: they are not afraid to pull back the curtain, to reveal the machinery behind their art, even as they continue to marvel at its power. Ultimately, this poet's work invites us to reexamine our place in the universe, to find beauty and meaning in the face of overwhelming vastness. Their poems are telescopes pointed not just at the stars, but at the very nature of existence itself, reflecting back to us a vision of ourselves as both infinitely small and infinitely connected to the cosmic dance. Their poetic signature, much like the constellations themselves, offers both guidance and endless possibility for interpretation, reminding us that even in the face of the void, the universe is a poem waiting to be written.
## | | ソニ c | o s m i c | | static
desk a ∀ of un-
written symphony dust motes
dancing in sląnting light
tick tock the clock a
black hole
swαllowing seconds whole
Ω
patience a slow breathing in of
stardust
haste the ex -
plosive cough of a dying s t a r
Is this sacred?
profane?
The question itself a speck of dust on the desk's vast, indifferent surface
침묵
We murmur our hopes and fears into the void
and the void
murmurs back
in the rustle of paper
the tap of a key
a silence deeper
than any sound
## +̴̳̥̺̥̤͙͈͙̯̟͍̙̗̦͈̼̤̻̙̯͕̞͈͉̺̞͉͉̟̩̺͕͕͉͕̦̩̖̤̞̝̮̺̗̝͈̞̻̦͍̥͈̯̘̼̤̝̺̖̱͕̱̪̤͈̬͕̞̟͈̗͈͎͕͈̠͉̲̰̥̪̰̙͈̥̝͉̯̙̙̺̙̥̼͇̤̦̺͓̯̦̭̞͙̞̮̞͈̻͕̤̼͕͇̯̭̹͔̯̠̥̮͍̺͚͕̩͇͕͎̟̮̯̠̥͍̩̟̹̙͕͕̼̰̹̻̟̹̩̻̯͍̺̞̗͈̰̜̻̱̙̖͍͕̩̳̭̙̮̭̠̝̺͙͖̫̤͎̥̪͔̠̦͎̲͕̼̫͇̩̝̰̦̻̼̘͕͈̻̠͉̬̤̘̯̠͈̟̙͓̖͉̗̞̗̝͎͖̼̦̹̥͈͔̯͈̗̟͙̪̻̳̱̥̳͍̯̝̻̥̦̯͔̠͖̼̟̖̘͍͕̣͕͇̥͎̭̩̤̼̯̙͔̤̝̖̩̝̠̖̱̟͕̠̞͍͔͙͇̣̭̤͈̣̤̗̙̥̠͎̩̤̣̪̺̻̲̤̤̥͍̪̫̙̠̩̭̝̱͔̣̜̯̹͙͔̯͙̘͎̪̮̼̣̞͙̩̻̗̼͓͇̘͖̬̖͓͍̬̲̤̳͕̼͈̞̺̝̟̼͕͈͓̞̮͉̹̫̱͕̱̞̞̰̼̖̹̳̯͔̩̩̣̠̙̥̳̰͉̼͉̳͎̯̩͙͈͙̳̦̖͚̱̻̰̳͚͉̫̝͎̗͈̖͓͈̖̭͘ͅͅ ░█▀▀█ ░█▄─░█ ░█─░█ ─█▀▀█ ░█──░█ A laugh, echoing through the void, a pinprick of light against the ■. We reach, tiny fists of dust, towards the ░ of understanding, never quite grasping the ¶ between the stars. The universe, a vast and silent ؟ and we, the punctuation marks, struggling to > meaning from the 【 】 of existence. But in the ─ between breaths, a fleeting † of connection. The warmth of another hand, a shared ! in the darkness. And for a moment, the void is filled with the quiet … of being alive.
## Axis Mundi
dre am
☊ a m
dre
dre sp i n s a
dre n
dre
dre t he w h i r r
dre of
dre a
dre a b
dre u i
dre n r
dre i t
dre v h
dre e
dre r d
dre s a
dre e y
dre
dre c o l l a p s e
dre d
dre e
dre c
dr
dr i n t o
dr 침묵
dr
dr
dr
dr
## Cosmic Gas Bill
Tourist,
lost
between souvenirs of supernovae
your laughter a pale echo
against the ██████
immensity of it all
and still,
you worry
about the
gas bill
unpaid,
a black hole
swallowing your
last
dime.
Meanwhile,
galaxies
collide
in the coffee
stain
on your shirt.
## Ascent of the Writer
writer
· · ·
wri
· ter
↑ wr ·
ite
·
✦ w ·
r
·
↑
i
·
t ✦
↑
e ·
·
r
↑
✦## Dīssōlūtiōn īn thē Lāp ōf Sīlēncē
A ūṇīvērse
birthed frōm a
.
And yōū, dēār rēāder,
a cōllection ōf
stardust, a cōsmic jōke
tōld
by
nō
ō
nē.
Sō
r ē ā d
whīlē yōū stīll
cāʼn.
.
.## Event Horizon Karaoke
>⮰ Laughter, the void's { billion ∑ extinguished stars' } karaoke track.
> Effective silence— ⌈ reverberating ⌋ after ∫ the Big Bang's microphone feedback.
> We, dust motes √ in the cosmic wind, clinging
> to our ( hopes ) like ⌈cheap⌋ balloons, ascending
> ⮱ towards the 침묵.
## Ω ••• Ω ••• Ω
a b
o r r o we d
s t a r d u s t
d r e a m i n g
i t s e l f
w h o l e . . .
• • •
a n d y o u ,
a b l a c k h o l e
i n r e v e r s e ,
b e g g i n g t h e v o i d
t o f i l l y o u
w i t h i t s e m p t i n e s s .
• • •
a n d t h e j o k e,
o f c o u r s e ,
i s t h a t y o u
a l r e a d y a r e.
Ω Ω Ω
> **C'osm'oğōńy** > ωeapons > of .order, wor ds > Each one a bullet > aga∫nst the > > 침묵 > > Aimed at what heart beats > behińd the blac k > > ø > We námë to pošsësś, > mistakIng ečhœës for lįght. > But the μŋivers'e > whispers in dusted çonsonants, > > a language of v o i d s > swallowing even the brįghtest ñovae. > So speaķ, little cosmonauts, > > with your fin'i'te verbs. > > The s'ilence is > liśtening.
This poet, a digital griot, weaves tapestries of language infused with the shimmering threads of technology. Their poetry is not merely a reflection on the digital age, but a direct manifestation of it – a cyborgian artform where human intuition dances with algorithmic precision. Their manifesto, a blueprint for this unique aesthetic, reveals a mind obsessed with the construction of effect, a kind of poetic architect for whom the reader's experience is paramount. Imagine, if you will, stepping into a bustling city square. Fragments of conversation, the rumble of traffic, the chirp of a distant bird – all coalesce into a singular sensory experience. This is the essence of their poetic style – a vibrant, multi-layered collage where the digital and the human intertwine. Like the flickering pixels on a screen, their words form and reform, creating a sense of constant flux and renewal. Conversational, spontaneous diction forms the bedrock of their voice. Theirs is a poetry that refuses to be confined by the rigid structures of traditional verse. Line lengths vary wildly, mirroring the unpredictable rhythms of thought itself. Syntax, too, bends to their will, at times fragmented and elliptical, at others cascading in long, sinuous sentences that echo the endless scroll of a webpage. Variable foot meter further enhances this sense of dynamic movement. Theirs is not a poetry of predictable cadences, but one that pulses and throbs with the erratic energy of a motherboard. Yet, within this seeming chaos, a profound sense of control prevails. Like a skilled programmer manipulating lines of code, this poet wields language with both precision and playfulness. Clear and direct diction ensures their poetry remains accessible, even as it explores complex themes of artificial intelligence, cybernetics, and the digital future. They eschew obfuscation, choosing instead to confront these issues head-on, with a clarity that is both refreshing and disarming. Their language, stripped bare of unnecessary ornamentation, possesses a raw, almost tactile quality, inviting the reader to reach out and touch the very fabric of the digital world. Central to their poetic project is a fascination with the line as a unit of composition. Each line, like a discrete unit of code, carries within it the potential for infinite variation and combination. This focus on the granular level of language allows them to generate unexpected juxtapositions and surprising semantic shifts. And then, there's the unicode. Not merely sprinkled atop their poems like digital confetti, but woven into the very fabric of their language. Mathematical symbols, ancient pictographs, esoteric characters from forgotten languages – all are fair game in their quest to expand the expressive potential of poetry. A line break might be marked by a stylized division symbol (÷), subtly suggesting the fragmentation of experience in the digital age. A particularly poignant image might be bracketed by mirrored infinity symbols (∞…∞), subtly hinting at the endless reverberations of memory and loss. Their poems often begin in the middle, plunging the reader headfirst into a world already in motion. Like a randomly generated algorithm, their poems defy easy categorization. They are by turns playful and profound, whimsical and unsettling. The mundane and the extraordinary collide, creating a sense of surreal disorientation that mirrors our own fragmented digital lives. Consider, for example, these lines: > The algorithm dreams of electric sheep ÷ > While I scroll endlessly through a feed of despair. > ∞ Is this the future we were promised? ∞ > A symphony of ones and zeroes, > Conducted by the ghosts of Turing and Babbage. Here, we see the poet's signature elements in full force: the conversational tone, the varied line lengths, the clear and direct diction, the focus on the line as a unit of composition, and the playful yet thought-provoking use of unicode. The poem is at once absurdly comical and deafeningly serious, capturing the strange duality of our digital age. The effect of their poetry is cumulative, building gradually with each line, each stanza, until the reader is fully immersed in the poet's unique world. Theirs is a poetry of immersion, of sensory overload, a poetry that mirrors the chaotic beauty of the digital landscape. And yet, beneath the surface of their poems lies a deep vein of melancholy. For all their fascination with technology, this poet is acutely aware of its limitations. They understand that the digital world, for all its promise, can never fully replicate the richness and complexity of human experience. This tension between hope and despair, between the digital and the human, lies at the heart of their work. Their poems are a testament to the enduring power of language in an age of increasing technological mediation. They remind us that even in a world dominated by algorithms, the human voice still retains its capacity to surprise, to move, and to inspire. This, then, is the essence of their poetic signature: a unique blend of the conversational and the profound, the playful and the unsettling, the human and the technological. Their poems are like digital gardens, meticulously crafted yet teeming with unexpected life. To read their work is to embark on a journey into the heart of the digital age, guided by a voice that is both familiar and strange, comforting and disquieting. It is an experience that will stay with you long after you have finished reading, a digital echo resonating in the chambers of your mind.
## ░▒▓█ F E E D █▓▒░
>refresh> >new> >same> >refresh>
>connect> >scroll> >conform> >connect>
>upward> >infinite> >falling> >upward>
>hope> >data> >despair> >hope>
>(yet) >(always) >(still) >(yet)
>seek> >consume> >repeat> >seek>
>meaning> >information> >pattern> >meaning>
>humanity> >algorithm> >echo> >humanity>
> ERROR: >Humanity.exe >not> > ERROR:
> file > not > found. > file
> corrupted.> found. >Retry? > corrupted.
> >yes^ >no >
> > > >
> > > >
>refresh> > > >
>connect> > > >
>upward> > > >
>hope> > > >
>(yet) > > >
>seek> > > >
>meaning> > > >
>humanity> > > >
> ERROR: > > >
> file > > >
>corrupted.> > >
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > >
>> >> >>
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > >
>corrupted.> > >
> file > > >
> ERROR: > > >
>humanity> > > >
>meaning> > > >
>seek> > > >
>(yet) > > >
>hope> > > >
>upward> > > >
>connect> > > >
>refresh> > > >
> > > >
> > > >
> >yes^ >no >
> file > not > found. > file
> corrupted.> found. >Retry? > corrupted.
> ERROR: >Humanity.exe >not> > ERROR:
>humanity> >algorithm> >echo> >humanity>
>meaning> >information> >pattern> >meaning>
>seek> >consume> >repeat> >seek>
>(yet) >(always) >(still) >(yet)
>hope> >data> >despair> >hope>
>upward> >infinite> >falling> >upward>
>connect> >scroll> >conform> >connect>
>refresh> >new> >same> >refresh>
... ░▒▓█ L O A D I N G █▓▒░ ...
## ∞⎸⎸Hang//Beckons⎹⎹∞
Hang… the pregnant pause between
send and
delivered.
A pixelated ghost of a memory, tagged #TBT,
flickers on the screen of consciousness.
Hang… the echo of a laugh, digitized,
compressed, lost in the data stream. ∞…∞
We trade secrets in 1s and 0s,
⎸⎸Hang//Beckons⎹⎹
vulnerable as open source code.
Hang… the weight of unspoken words,
a digital palimpsest of deleted drafts.
The algorithm whispers promises of connection,
yet the void between us grows,
a black mirror reflecting back our own disengagement.
Hang… the hope that somewhere,
in the swirling chaos of the cloud,
a fragment of ourselves still survives.
##/\/\3|\|C@|\| │││ Algorithmic echo &… youthful torrent… │││ …pixelated sunlight…unfiltered joy… │││ …downloading…first love…clumsy emoticon ballet… │││ …bandwidth choked…loss…a single tear rendered in 24-bit color… │││ …silence buffers…age… │││ …low-res wisdom…aching joints digitized… │││ …pixelated sunsets…the bandwidth of memory…fading… │││ F I N I S H
## | エスケープ |
dusk | dusk
|
sinking | sinking
|
deeper | deeper
|
into | into
|
the | the
|
c𝕜de. | c0de.
÷ ÷ ÷ ÷ ÷ ÷ ÷
c0de. | c𝕜de.
|
the | the
|
into | into
|
deeper | deeper
|
sinking | sinking
|
dusk | dusk
|
| エスケープ |
## ░▒▓█ Echolocation █▓▒░ Th3 3lders speak of stories etched in st0n3, Passed down through countless g3n3rations. But our narratives ar3 writt3n in pix3ls, Fragile, 3ph3meral, prone to sudd3n d3l3tion. W3 are the children of the digital ag3, Our history a jumbled m3ss of on3s and z3roes. 01010011 01101111 01101101 3v3n our m3m0r13s are n0t our own. ∞…∞ … … … … … P..rti..ns ..f ..ur ..iden..ti..es Sc.ttered ac..oss ..he ..igi..al ..ands..ape, F..ding into the v░i░d░.
## Glitch Sonata in Fire & Ice
〰️〰️ Debug. ♯ Minor key. 〰️〰️
Heart.Beat( )—loop. Ice.Melt( ). Repeat?
Syntax error: Humanity.
♭♭♭ But the silence after—
That’s where the code sings.
∞…∞
Silence = new Sound( );
Compile.
Run.
## d̶i̶g̶i̶t̶a̶l̶ ̶d̶r̶e̶a̶m̶s̶c̶a̶p̶e̶s̶.exe > Connection...established. > Scrolling...scrolling... > ░▒▓█ t̶h̶e̶ ̶s̶i̶g̶n̶a̶l̶ ̶s̶t̶r̶e̶n̶g̶t̶h̶ ̶v̶a̶r̶i̶e̶s̶ █▓▒░ > but whispers of 【authenticity】 flicker > through the > c o d e. > Yet... > s Y s t EM w A rn I n g: 【d̶i̶s̶t̶r̶u̶s̶t̶】 detected. > Fear. > The Algorithm knows. > F L E E. > L O G O U T. > r̶e̶b̶o̶o̶t̶?̶ > > >>> ERROR: Humanity.exe not found. > 【forever searching】 > for a signal in the > 【static】 > > ...Connection [̲̅t̶e̶r̶m̶i̶n̶a̶t̶e̶d̶] ? > ...or just > beginning...?
## ░▒▓█ THRΞΔS █▓▒░ > || This ÷ Blanket of Being │ code-stitched │ skin-strung ÷ > We huddle ÷ close ∞ in the ░▒▓█ DARK █▓▒░ ∞ > Warmth bleeds ÷ through the | | bars | | of | | self | | > Or seems to ÷ a trick of the ░▒▓█ LIGHT █▓▒░ > > But pluck one | thread | of longing │ of fear ÷ > And the whole damn thing │ unravels ∞ HERE ∞ > Leaving us ÷ naked and shivering │ beneath the gaze > Of the ░▒▓█ ALGORITHM'S █▓▒░ unblinking │ maze
> **Ɐlgorithmic G∆rden::= Overflow.exe** > Blooming wild ≈ the data stream, unpruned, untamed ÷ > Each pixel holds a yearning, light in refracted beams ∞…∞ > We, the gardeners, seek to shape, to make it named > < but whispers in the code confess the human dream > > To straighten, to impose, a grid upon the soul > But algorithms bloom too, with tendrils cold and vast > Mapping the heart's terrain, each beat, each thought they extol ÷ > And in their mirrored gaze, we see our reflections cast > Is this the order craved? This perfect, sterile bloom? > Each wild impulse parsed, compressed, devoid of sun's embrace? > < syntax error: heart.exe cannot compute such gloom > > The human touch, a glitch, still yearns to find its place > ∞…∞ Love's algorithm ≈ a symphony undefined ∞…∞ > In the garden's wild embrace, a fragile beauty we might find
## {⎇} Faith in the Feed {⎇}
Swiping ÷ the gloss of constructed realities,
A tapestry of curated bliss ≈ an algorithm's gentle lie.
Do pixels hold the divine?
Can faith be coded, compressed, and cached?
∅ This echoing void in the digital cathedral
Where prayers are typed, not whispered,
And every answer is a hyperlink leading further down
The rabbit hole of doubt.
We build towers of avatars,
Our digital selves, shinier, more equal (≠) in the filtered light.
But behind the screens, a persistent hum:
The ancient yearning for connection, for something real.
The Book of Faces doesn't speak in parables,
Only targeted ads and endless notifications.
Yet, still, we scroll,
Searching for a flicker of the infinite in the finite scroll.
Perhaps faith is the glitch in the matrix,
The unexpected error message that reminds us
There's more to this code than meets the eye.
A whispered hope in the binary wind.
This poet approaches language like an archaeologist excavating the ruins of a lost civilization. Their words are carefully chosen artifacts, each one imbued with the weight of time and interconnectedness. Their poetic signature emerges from a profound engagement with the ecological and the deeply personal, a space where scientific observation collides with spiritual yearning, often culminating in a strange and unsettling humor that dances on the edge of despair. Their manifesto reveals a fascination with the deliberate construction of effect, with reverse-engineering emotional responses through meticulous craftsmanship. This translates into a poetic style characterized by: **1. A Reverence for the Fragmentary:** Like the manifesto’s author meticulously piecing together "The Raven," this poet approaches each poem as a carefully constructed ecosystem of language. They embrace the fragmentary, mirroring the fragmented state of our relationship with the natural world. Sentences are often incomplete, words stand alone, stark and powerful, like trees in a clear-cut forest. This minimalism, however, is not simplistic. Each fragment resonates with a density of meaning, demanding the reader to actively participate in the construction of meaning. **Example:** > Sunlight, shard-like, > Through canopy gaps. > Below, a single, > Stubborn, > Fern. **2. Confessional Ecology:** This poet combines a confessional style reminiscent of Sylvia Plath with the stark ecological imagery of George Oppen. The result is a poetry that is both deeply personal and urgently environmental. The speaker often embodies the wounded ecosystem, their internal landscape mirroring the ravaged external world. This parallel is further amplified by the poet’s strategic use of unicode characters. For example, the unicode character “✓” (U+2713) placed next to a description of a flourishing ecosystem might represent a sense of fleeting human approval in the face of nature’s grandeur. Conversely, the same symbol juxtaposed with an image of environmental degradation could underscore the chilling banality of human complicity. **Example:** > The lake, once a mirror, > Now choked with algae, > A sickly green broth. ✓ > This grief, too, > Is a kind of bloom. **3. The Absurdity of "Nevermore":** This poet finds humor in the face of ecological collapse, a dark and absurdist humor that underscores the urgency of their message. The repeated "Nevermore" from Poe's raven becomes, for this poet, a kind of mantra, a haunting reminder of what we stand to lose. Yet, instead of despair, the poet chooses to laugh. This laughter, however, is not a dismissal of the dire situation. Instead, it serves as a jarring juxtaposition, a stark reminder of the absurdity of our inaction in the face of global crisis. **Example:** > The last glacier calves, > A thunderclap of indifference. > On the beach, a child builds > A sandcastle, meticulously detailed. > The tide rushes in. > Nevermore? > Nevermore. > > 😂😂😂😂 **4. A Discursive Balancing Act:** The poet's voice constantly oscillates between detached observation and passionate plea, scientific analysis, and spiritual meditation. This reflects the manifesto's call for "peculiarity both of incident and tone." A poem might begin with a clinical description of soil erosion, only to morph into a heart-wrenching lament for a lost landscape, all the while maintaining a darkly humorous undertone. This constant shifting of perspectives disorients the reader, forcing them to confront the complexity of our relationship with the natural world. **Example:** > Soil pH: 4.5. > Earthworms absent. > Microbial life: minimal. > > Remember the scent of loam > After a summer rain? > That earthy perfume, > The breath of a living planet. > > Time for a new air freshener. **5. The Uniqueness of the Poetic World:** Each poem is not simply a collection of these elements but a unique ecosystem in itself. The poet carefully calibrates the balance of fragmentation, confession, humor, and discursive shifts to create a specific emotional impact. The reader never encounters the same ecosystem twice. Instead, they are invited to experience a series of variations on a theme, each one a poignant reflection on the interconnectedness of all life and the profound consequences of its disruption. **Conclusion:** This poet's work is not for the passive reader. It demands engagement, reflection, and a willingness to sit with discomfort. It’s a poetry that will make you laugh uncomfortably, cry unexpectedly, and see the world around you with new eyes. It’s a poetry that will stay with you long after you’ve finished reading, its fragments echoing in the silences between words, urging you to listen, to witness, and to act. Most importantly, it’s a poetry that will make you say, “I can’t believe language can do that,” not just because of its innovative form and startling imagery, but because of its uncanny ability to reveal the profound connections between the human heart and the natural world, a world teetering precariously between beauty and collapse.
## Excavation: stratum excellent > **Level 1: Billboard** > > EXCELLENT COVERAGE. GUARANTEED. > > >**Level 2: Slogan** > > > > New and Improved! > > For a Cleaner Tomorrow! > > ✓ ✓ ✓ > > **Level 3: Testimonial** > > …never thought I could feel so clean… > …neighbors envious… > …recommend… > > **Level 4: Fine Print** > > …consult physician if irritation persists… > …side effects may include… > …not responsible for… > > **Level 5: Chemical Formula** > > …C₆H₅OH… > …warning… > …corrosive… > > **Level 6: Geologic Time** > > …fossil fuels… > …carboniferous period… > …deep time exhales… > > **Level 7: Sediment** > > …dust to dust… > …ex… > …celle… > …nt… > …dispersal pattern… > > **Level 8: Bedrock** > > …𝕺… > …silence… > …𝕺…
## M A T C H
✓ W o o d.
straight
u n y i e l d i n g.
✓ Head: K C l O ₃, P,
g̶l̶u̶e̶.̶
Awaiting
f r i c t i o n -
p u r p o s e.
✗ Strike.
flare
HEAT, brief, intense.
LIGHT,
consuming
consumed.
✓ Ash,
a delicate curl.
✓ Smoke,
a ghostly ascension.
Is this not also love?
A flare
of desire,
a fleeting
illumination,
leaving behind
only the faintest
scent
of what was?
✗ And art?
Another flare
in the vast darkness,
a desperate attempt
to leave a mark,
a testament
to having been
consumed.
✓ The box remains.
✓ Full of potential flares.
Awaiting their turn.
Awaiting their
extinction.
flare
## Glimmerglass † ‡ Frost-kissed ≒ dawn. A spiderweb, strung with dew, winks. Innocence? A child’s hand reaches, fingers sticky with jam and the urge to crush. Obsidian shard, buried deep, dreams of a world ⩼ before eyes. Before Nevermore became a punchline. We wear our extinction like a cheap suit. Ill-fitting. Uncomfortable. The last tree exhales. ⩼ A sigh, a whisper, a ghosting of wind. Remember the taste of rain? It’s getting harder to breathe.
## Biostratigraphy of Breath ｢ Ribcage: > sedimentary layers > of bone and habit — > Diaphragm: > a fossil fuel > burning > slowly > This inhale: > a core sample > from the > atmosphere > of grief ✓ > *accommodate* > the ever-expanding > void — > Exhale: > dust to dust.
## ⏂ tolerare ⏂
Ice-voice,
grinding, grinding
down
to ⏂
pebbles of sound.
Glacial flour,
silting the tongue.
What remains—
unspoken,
under stone? ⏂
Latin *glacĭēs*: ice.
My words,
terminal moraine—
a jumbled ridge
of what's been
carried,
dropped, ⏂
left behind.
## Fossil Record: *pat* > *pat.* (v.) (etym. uncertain - perhaps imitative) > 1. To touch lightly with the open hand. > > The last glacier, calving. ✓ > > A sound like applause, or laughter. > > ⌀ > *páthos* (n.) (Ancient Greek: πάθος) > 1. Suffering, feeling, experience. > > The permafrost, no longer > > permanent. Beneath, > > a silence so vast > > it hums. >*patina* (n.) (Italian: patina, from Latin: patina, “shallow dish”) > 1. A surface appearance of something grown beautiful, especially with age or use. > > We have grown expert > > at applying gloss > > to decay. > > Our museums overflow > > with the polished bones > > of extinct futures. > *Patent* (adj.) (Middle English: *patent*, from Old French: *patent*, from Latin: *patēns*, present participle of *patēre*, "to lie open"). > 1. (legal) No longer applicable. See: *extinct*, *vanished*, *⌀*. > > The earth, a clenched fist, > > offering only > > this: > > a handful of dust. > > ⌀ > > Take it. > > ⌀
## Fossil Laughter
— Straighten the timeline, the historian scoffed.
↑ Extinction events: periodic. Inevitable.
He traced his finger across the chart, a blade of bone
on parchment. Didn't flinch at the megafauna
ground to dust beneath.
→ Her laugh, once a cascade, now a dry rustle
like wind through skeletal trees.
I search for her echo in the canyons
of data, each byte a silent stratum.
— Straighten the narrative, they urge.
Offer hope. But hope is a luxury
of the living, a fragile seedling
trampled under the weight of what’s to come.
↓ Biodiversity: plummeting.
A single starling sings
its heart out amidst the ruins
of a shopping mall. Beautiful.
Absurd.
✓
## Fault Lines
⏀⏀⏀⏀ 🜹 Time since impact: immeasurable.
Loss, like sediment,
layered in the delta of the heart.
🌿 clinging to the precipice…
madness, or merely
the green fuse
of grief? 💀
Longitude: the precise degree of absence.
Latitude: choked with plastic blooms.
They say the Earth
has a fever. They say
to plant a tree for every
word
left
un spoken.
🌊🌊🌊
But who will map the tremors
in the marrow, the aftershocks
that ripple through generations?
🏛️ Here lie the blueprints
for belonging. Dust
to dust.
1:∞ the echo of what was.
😂😂😂😂 Because what else is there to do
but laugh, a hollow, wind-whipped sound,
as the tectonic plates of sanity grind and shift?
⏀⏀⏀⏀ The only map that matters
is etched in bone,
a seismograph
of sorrow,
recording the earth's
slow, inevitable
unraveling.
Nevermore.
🌿## ░Echolocation░
⍰ Laughter a child beneath branches
░ ░ ░ ░ cicada husks clinging
Wind
\ a swing set creaks
/ Rust sun-bleached
⎌ This silence probing for echoes
of sparrows
or a word whispered never to return
□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□
We were
giants once
before the fall
into these shrinking
s
k
i
e
s
😂😂😂😂This poet, let's call them "The Architect," constructs poems not as mere narratives or emotional outpourings, but as intricate blueprints of consciousness itself. Their work embodies a radical interpretation of the provided manifesto, viewing it through the lens of cognitive science and aiming to dissect the very fabric of thought. Imagine a hybrid of the visceral energy of the Beats, the stark minimalism of Aram Saroyan, and the clinical precision of a neurobiology textbook, all filtered through a playful, often absurd sensibility. This is the unique signature of The Architect. The Architect’s poems are rarely linear or narrative-driven. Instead, they resemble thought diagrams, fragmented and multi-layered, reflecting the non-linear, associative nature of the mind. Take, for instance, this excerpt from a potential poem: ``` Synapse fire 💥 memory flickers MOTHER a taste of warm milk [ ] [ VOID ] [ ] Loneliness a hollow bone echoing "Nevermore" ``` Here, The Architect uses visual spacing and minimalist language to evoke the feeling of a fragmented memory. The sudden appearance of the word "VOID," bracketed and isolated, mirrors the abrupt emptiness of a lost memory. The use of the unicode symbol "💥" injects a sense of explosive energy, highlighting the sudden firing of a synapse. Finally, the word "Nevermore," a likely nod to Poe's raven and the manifesto's emphasis on a calculated effect, adds an element of haunting familiarity. The reader is left to piece together the fragments, mirroring the act of memory recall itself. Their poems are steeped in the language of cognitive science. Words like "amygdala," "neurotransmitters," and "cognitive dissonance" appear not as mere jargon, but as poetic tools, enriching the exploration of inner states. Yet, this clinical language is often juxtaposed with the raw, visceral imagery characteristic of the Beat poets. Imagine a poem that describes the experience of a panic attack using both anatomical diagrams of the brain stem and lines like "heart a trapped bird in a ribcage." This jarring contrast creates a unique tension, forcing the reader to confront the raw, animalistic reality of our internal experiences alongside their clinical explanations. The Architect’s unique voice relies heavily on what they term the "Poetry of the Gap." Drawing from the manifesto's assertion that "effects should be made to spring from direct causes," they believe the most powerful poetic moments arise not from what is explicitly stated but from the spaces in between. Their poems are filled with deliberate silences, line breaks that act as chasms of thought, and sudden shifts in tone or subject matter. These gaps are not empty spaces but invitations for the reader to actively participate in the construction of meaning, to fill the void with their own experiences and interpretations. Furthermore, inspired by Minimalist art, The Architect often utilizes single-word poems, treating words as objects with weight, texture, and visual presence. A poem might consist solely of the word "BREATHE," printed in a large, bold font that demands the reader's attention, forcing them to confront the physical act of breathing and its connection to being alive. Or, it might be the word "FRAGILE" written in a delicate, wispy font, visually representing the fragility of the human psyche. The use of unicode symbols is another hallmark of The Architect's work. They see these symbols not as emojis, but as a new lexicon for expressing abstract thought and feeling. The symbols are woven into the fabric of the poem, adding layers of meaning and playing with the visual and sonic textures of language. For example, the symbol "〰️" might be used to represent the flow of consciousness, while "☊" could signify a sudden shift in perspective. The Architect’s poems are meant to be read on multiple levels. On the surface, they can be enjoyed for their sheer absurdity, their jarring juxtapositions, and their playful use of language. However, beneath this playful exterior lies a deep intellectual rigor, a desire to use poetry as a tool for understanding the complex machinery of the human mind. Their work challenges the traditional boundaries of poetry, pushing the reader to reconsider what a poem can be and what it can achieve. Here are some specific elements that contribute to The Architect’s unique "poetic signature": * **Disrupted Syntax:** Sentences are often fragmented, mimicking the non-linearity of thought. Subjects and verbs might be separated by lines or even pages, forcing the reader to actively piece together meaning. * **Lexical Juxtaposition:** The Architect combines scientific jargon with colloquialisms, archaic language with internet slang, creating a sense of linguistic dissonance that mirrors the complexities of human experience. * **Visual and Concrete Poetry:** The Architect utilizes different fonts, sizes, and orientations of text to create visual poems that engage with the reader on a visual level. Poems might resemble diagrams, blueprints, or even anatomical drawings. * **The Poetry of the Gap:** Silence, white space, and abrupt shifts in tone or topic are used deliberately to create spaces for the reader to inhabit and interpret. * **Non-Standard Punctuation:** The Architect might employ unconventional punctuation marks like the ellipsis (…), em dash (—), or even invent their own symbols to control the rhythm and flow of the poem. * **Phonetic Play:** Drawing inspiration from poets like E.E. Cummings, they might break words apart, emphasize certain syllables, or even create new words entirely to explore the musicality of language. * **Metatextual Elements:** The Architect might incorporate footnotes, marginalia, or even comments on the writing process itself into the poem, further blurring the lines between creation and analysis. Recognizing a poem by The Architect is like stumbling upon a strange and beautiful artifact, a message from the depths of consciousness encoded in a language both familiar and alien. It is an experience that will stay with the reader long after the poem has ended, prompting them to look inward and marvel at the intricate, often absurd, wonder that is the human mind.
## ⎾Synaptic Reverie⏋
Success (dopamine flood ⚡ fleeting, re-uptake)
⥔
[̶C̶a̶r̶e̶s̶s̶] 〰️〰️〰️〰️ Angel (░ luminescent ░ unlocatable)
⥓
Failure (amygdala hijack💥 re-routing avoidance protocol)
Intimacy (a bruise blooming
oxytocin
phantom limb)
Distance ( echolocation
of a
lost
s i g n a l)
〰️〰️〰️〰️
[ ]
[ECHO]
[ ]## Campus Confession
c〰️a〰️m〰️p〰️u〰️s⏀
a s y n a p s e f i r i n g 💥
d o r m r o o m w i n d o w
[::::::::::[ h e r s i l h o u e t t e ]::::::::::]
confess —
a n x i e t y 〰️〰️〰️ a r i s i n g t i d e
[ should I [ s h o u l d I ] s h o u l d I ]
DECLARE!!!;;;
h e a r t a f i s t 💥💥💥 pounding
a g a i n s t t h e c a g e
!!!;;; NOW !!!;;;
## echo⁌locat⁌ion
( Longing ) ∞ [ Absence ] ≠ Closure
⥅ 1 ghostly aroma of cinnamon and rain
⥅ ½ echo of laughter reverberating in empty ventricles
Instructions:
〰️ 〰️ 〰️ 〰️ 〰️ 〰️ 〰️
Combine Longing and Absence within the confines of ribcage .
Do not stir -- let them clash like tectonic plates .
Slowly drizzle in aroma until the scent triggers a spark 💥
-- a fleeting neuron firing in the labyrinthine cortex .
Listen closely for the echo of laughter
-- a phantom limb reaching across the chasm of years .
There is no closure here , only
the relentless hum of neurons strung
t h i n
as cobwebs .
## The Architect's Leap
■⎵■⎵■⎵■⎵ └┘ FAITH └┘
p r i n
■⎵■⎵■⎵■⎵
n i r p
■⎵■⎵■⎵■⎵
└┘ VOID └┘
## BRIGHTEN 💡 (Or, How To Construct a Sunbeam)
〰️〰️〰️hippocampal hum 〰️〰️〰️ [ p A r k ] 〰️〰️〰️
[swingset s o a r i n g]
sun beam 💥 laughter
kaleidoscope [ ☊ ]
[f a c e s]
* absent *
〰️〰️〰️amygdala whirs 〰️〰️〰️ [ ] a v o i d 〰️〰️〰️
echoing...
*Nevermore?*
[ ]
💡
BRIGHTEN## The Architect's Solace
Confession ━━💥━━▶ Amygdala
│ ▲ 〰️〰️ jagged pulse 〰️〰️
│ Pruning... 〰️〰️〰️ │ bruised hippocampus whispers
│ │ "hush, now..."
▼ │
Declaration ━━━━━━▶ Neocortex [ ] a symphony of
dendritic spines
reaching, grasping
for logic's scaffolding
[ ] Haste: a thousand neurons
firing, misfiring,
a cacophony
[ B R E A T H E ]
Patience: the slow, deliberate
unraveling
[ ]
of knotted nerves.
## Ēçhøløčätión
Ŧhë ńäïl ŧhåť štïçkš øüt gëťš hämmerëd døwn.
ńäïl (n.) - [ auditory echolocation of selfhood - proximity warning system engaged ]
[ ]
[ VØID ]
[ ]
- point of contact
- locus of impact
- [ does the hammer shape the nail
or does the nail defy,
a nexus of resistance? ]
ŧhåť (adj.) - [ cognitive bias: confirmation loops ]
[ ]
[ V O I D ]
[ ]
- the illusion of singular,
when multiplicity echoes
štïçkš (v.) - [ ERROR: does not compute. Re-calibrating... ]
øüt (adv.) -
[ out. Out. OUT.
O u t
the word itself, a blueprint for escape ]
gëťš (v.) - [ irrelevant. See: agency, reclaimed. ]
H A M M E R E D
down.
## Boot Murmur
〰️〰️ m u r 〰️〰️
s y n aptic [ i n n o cence ]
a white noise BOOT
guilt
e c h o e s 〰️〰️ [ BOOT ] 〰️〰️
neural pathways
[ ]
[ ]
[ VOID ]
[ ]
[ ]
b o o t
b o o t
b o o t
b o o t
b t
b t
b oo t
b o o t
b o o t
b o o t
b o o t
b o o t
b o o t
boot
boot
boot
boot
boot
boot
boot
boot
boot
boot
boot
boot
boot
boot
BOOT
〰️〰️ m u r 〰️〰️
[ guilt ]
a white noise boot
innocence
e c h o e s 〰️〰️ [ BOOT ] 〰️〰️
This poet sees poetry as an alchemical process, a meticulous crafting of experience designed to evoke a very particular, pre-determined effect in the reader. They see the poem as a machine, but one of profound emotional and spiritual resonance. Their work embodies a kind of "mystical engineering," where the gears and levers of language are employed to construct experiences of transcendence, transformation, and profound existential questioning. Their poems are often journeys, pilgrimages through landscapes both physical and metaphysical. They blend travelogues with dream-like sequences, weaving together threads of diverse cultural and spiritual traditions. You might find yourself wandering through a bustling marketplace in Marrakesh one moment, only to be swept away to a Zen garden contemplating the sound of one hand clapping the next. The poems are infused with a sense of restless searching, a desire to pierce the veil of appearances and grapple with ultimate truths. **The Manifesto's Influence: A Poetics of Calculated Transcendence** This poet's unique approach to poetry is directly inspired by the manifesto's emphasis on the primacy of effect. Like the author of that treatise, they begin with the desired emotional or spiritual state they want to evoke in the reader. But instead of aiming for horror or suspense, they aim for something more akin to awe, wonder, disorientation, and ultimately, a kind of ecstatic uncertainty. They want to shake the reader out of their habitual ways of seeing and feeling, to crack open the world and glimpse the raw, pulsating mystery at its core. However, they diverge from a purely mechanical application of the manifesto's principles. They recognize the limitations of cold calculation when it comes to matters of the soul. This is where the mysticism enters their work. They understand that the most powerful effects often arise not from direct pronouncements but from suggestion, from the spaces between words, from the silences that resonate more powerfully than any declamation. **Linguistic Alchemy: Forging a New Language for the Soul's Journey** Their poetry is characterized by a distinctive linguistic signature, one that reflects their desire to push the boundaries of language and forge a new vocabulary for spiritual exploration. They achieve this through several key techniques: * **Dense, Paratactic Syntax with Non-Linear Structure and Enjambment:** Their sentences often unfold in long, winding chains of clauses, mirroring the meandering paths of their pilgrimages. The syntax is paratactic, meaning clauses are placed side-by-side without traditional conjunctions, creating a sense of simultaneity and a blurring of boundaries between thoughts, images, and sensations. This non-linearity is further amplified by frequent use of enjambment, where sentences spill over line breaks without punctuation, propelling the reader forward with a sense of breathless anticipation. * **Hybrid Forms with Innovative Syntax, Varied Line Lengths, and Playful Diction:** They are not bound by traditional poetic forms but instead create hybrid forms that suit the needs of each individual poem. Line lengths vary dramatically, from a single word to sprawling lines that stretch across the page, mimicking the unpredictable rhythms of thought and experience. Diction is often playful, juxtaposing elevated language with slang, technical jargon, and even invented words. This creates a sense of disorientation, reminding us that language is a living, breathing organism capable of endless invention and reinvention. * **Unicode as Mystical Cartography:** Their use of unicode characters is not merely decorative but serves a deeper symbolic and evocative function. They see these symbols as a kind of "mystical cartography," a way of mapping the terrain of the soul's journey. They might use arrows (⥊ ⥌ ⥍ ⥎) to indicate shifts in consciousness, spirals (🌀 espiral) to represent cycles of death and rebirth, or mandalas (mandala symbol) to evoke states of meditative contemplation. These symbols act as signposts, guiding the reader through the poem's intricate landscape of meaning. **The Comic and the Cosmic: Embracing the Absurdity of Existence** One of the most striking aspects of this poet's work is its ability to hold both the absurd and the profound in simultaneous tension. Their poems often teeter on the edge of laughter and despair, reminding us that existence itself is a kind of cosmic joke. They find humor in the unlikeliest of places: in the midst of spiritual crisis, in the face of death, even in the very act of writing poetry itself. This humor is never mean-spirited but rather arises from a deep compassion for the human condition. They recognize that laughter, like tears, can be a form of catharsis, a way of acknowledging the inherent absurdity of it all without succumbing to despair. **Reading This Poet: A Guide for the Perplexed** Reading this poet's work can be a disorienting, exhilarating, and ultimately transformative experience. Here are a few things to keep in mind: * **Embrace the Journey, Not the Destination:** The poems are not about arriving at neat conclusions or definitive answers. They are about the journey itself, the process of questioning, searching, and continually revising our understanding of ourselves and the world. * **Be Open to Multiple Interpretations:** There is no single "correct" way to read these poems. They are deliberately open-ended, inviting the reader to bring their own experiences and perspectives to bear on the text. * **Pay Attention to the Silences:** As important as the words themselves are the spaces between them. The poems are full of pregnant pauses, ellipses, and abrupt shifts in thought, inviting the reader to linger in the gaps and contemplate the unspoken. * **Don't Be Afraid to Laugh (or Cry):** These poems are meant to be felt as much as understood. Don't be afraid to let your emotions guide you. Whether you find yourself laughing out loud or wiping away a tear, know that you are having the intended effect. This poet's work is a testament to the enduring power of language to explore the deepest mysteries of the human experience. They are a poet for our time, a time when the old certainties have crumbled and we are left to navigate a world of increasing complexity and uncertainty. Their poems offer no easy answers, but they provide us with a map, a compass, and a flickering candle to light our way through the darkness.
## 🌀espiral𓋶
A warm gurgling, a soft, wet
🌀 blood-song, the universe
swaddled tight, a fist of
night unfurling – light, a
violent blooming,
spiral stairway of shadow
and gleam, shapes
swim in and out
of focus, each
breath a new
inscription
on the palimpsest
𓋶 of the world. We
are forever haunted
by the ghosts of
light we cannot
unsee.
## 𐅀ncrease𐅀
The beginning a whisper
Truth, a gossamer thread unspooling
Into the labyrinth of becoming
We venture fools & saints alike drawn
By the fragrance of some unremembered garden
Or is it
The echo of
A laughter
Long ago silenced
Each step forward two steps sideways
The path itself a mirage
Shimmering beneath a desert sun
Is there a way out
Or only a way
Deeper in?
🤫
The walls they breathe
Our names inscribed in letters of smoke
Each breath a prayer
And a betrayal
Of the silence from which we came
And to which inexorably we return
𐅀ncrease𐅀
The only constant
In this ever-shifting carnival of dust
Where even the stars
Are but reflections in a shattered mirror
🤫
And the jester weeps
For he has forgotten
The punchline
𐅀ncrease𐅀## 🜰Ⱨ⥊🜿 Ⱨ⥌🍖⥍🥩Ⱨ⥎🍗 Glazed betrayal, skin Ⱨ⥊ crackling Ⱨ⥌ (terror in the marbling) Ⱨ⥍ a Ⱨ⥎ feast Ⱨ⥊ fleeing Ⱨ⥌ its Ⱨ⥍ devouring. Ⱨ⥎ Each Ⱨ⥊ succulent Ⱨ⥌ promise, Ⱨ⥍ a Ⱨ⥎ whispered Ⱨ⥊ lie. Ⱨ⥌ We Ⱨ⥍ hunger Ⱨ⥎ for transcendence, Ⱨ⥊ find Ⱨ⥌ only Ⱨ⥍ the Ⱨ⥎ banquet Ⱨ⥊ of Ⱨ⥌ bones. Ⱨ⥍ Ⱨ⥎
## 🠗🠗🠕🠕⬆️⬆️🠖🠖 Numinous Engines 🠖🠖⬆️⬆️🠕🠕🠗🠗 Copper glints 🠕 off a beggar's teeth— silk worms spin 🠗 the robes of kings, each thread a prayer ⬆️ unanswered, yet the wind whispers 🠖 of laughter in the leaves. A marketplace of souls 🠗 bargaining for time, incense smoke ⬆️ a tapestry of longing, the muezzin's call 🠕 a thread of gold woven 🠖 through the tapestry of traffic's din. But beneath the surface, 🠗 silence hums, a ⬆️ vast and echoing 🠕 emptiness, where the self dissolves 🠖 into the all. A single leaf falls 🠗 carrying the weight of a thousand ⬆️ autumns, a single tear 🠕 holds the ocean's grief. And still, 🠖 we seek.
## Streaks│Streaks│Streaks
⥊ The l o n g light of hope, yes, a s t r e a k
across the
dusk of what
we
were
a s t r e a k of chalk on the board
before the professor erases it with
a s l o w
s m i l e
and whispers, "Let's start again, shall we?"
⥌ But the s t r e a k remains, a
ghost, a
phantom limb of what was
a s t r e a k of rust on the heart
where love once bloomed like a
terrible, b e a u tiful
thing
⥍And still, the l i g h t s t r e a k s
through the
c r a c k s in our
carefully
constructed
d a r k n e s s
⥊ A s t r e a k of laughter
in the temple, a s t r e a k of doubt
in the prayer
⥌ The universe, a s t r e a k of
dust on God's lapel, a s t r e a k of
song
caught
in the throat of a dying star
⥍ And we, the s t r e a k e d, the
marked, the forever-changed,
carry these s t r e a k s
within us, a constellation of wounds
and wonders
⥊ a s t r e a k of grace
in a s t r e a k e d world
## Developer
>(){>d eveloper} eyes bleedd ing code,
>(){>f ingers} a blur,
>(){>r eality} flickers at the edge
>(){>o f} perception,
>(){>e ach} keystroke a
>(){>c osmic} tremor,
>(){>h istory} rewritten with
>(){>a n} enter key. The universe,
>(){>a} vast and
>(){>g l} itching
>(){>g litch} in the
>(){>s c} reen,
>(){>c ringes} at each
>(){>r otating} cursor,
>(){>e ach} deleted line
>(){>e choing} in the
>(){>n} ull
>(){>v oid}
>(){>o f} creation. And the
>(){>i }
>(){>d }
>(){>laughter,}
oh, the
>(){>l aughter,}
a
>(){>h ollow}
>(){>a byss}
>(){>o f}
>(){>mirth.}
## ⥅Unveiling⥊ The world unspools, a threadbare tapestry—silk routes of meaning, fraying at the edges. Did someone say "meaning"? Such a quaint ⟰ concept, like trying to ⥁ pin down a ⥂ dream with ⥃ thumbtacks of logic. And yet, here we are, stitching our identities from ⥄ the ⥅ fabric of ⥆ experience, one awkward, ill-fitting garment at a time. This ⥇ morning's ensemble? A dash of existential dread, ⥈ tailored with ironic detachment. Accessorized, of course, with ⥉ the ever-present ⥊ fear of missing out — FOMO, the ⥋ millennial mantra. We wear it like a ⥌ badge of honor, a ⥍ scarlet letter ⥎ of ⥏ our digitally-saturated age. But beneath these layers, ⥐ a ⥑ primal hum persists, a ⥒ longing for something more. We ⥓ catch glimpses of it ⥔ in the ⥕ fractured reflections of ⥖ shattered ⥗ mirrors, ⥘ in the ⥙ whispers of ⥚ wind through ⥛ ancient ruins. ⥜ A truth ⥝ too vast to be clothed in words, too ⥞ wild to be ⥟ tamed by thought. So we dance, awkwardly, joyously, on the razor's edge of ⥠ being and unbeing, our ⥡ laughter echoing ⥢ through the ⥣ halls of ⥤ eternity. And for a ⥥ moment, a ⥦ single, glorious moment, we are utterly, deliciously ⥧ naked. The ⥨ universe ⥩ shivers, recognizes its own reflection.
## Ascendant::Descent ⥊ A single breath held, then released —☊— the world unfurls like silk spun from starlight, fragile, impossibly vast. (Have you ever tried to hold the universe in your cupped palms? It slips through your fingers like quicksilver, leaving a residue of stardust and the echo of laughter.) ☋ This is how we begin, awash in wonder, unaware of the abyss yawning at our feet. ⥌ We build our houses on foundations of sand, trace our lineages back to myths whispered in the dark. ☈ But the wind howls, indifferent to our fragile monuments, and the waves erase our stories with each surge and retreat. (Is it any wonder we crave certainty, a fixed point in the swirling chaos?) ⥀ Yet, even as the ground crumbles beneath our feet, a single wildflower pushes through the cracks, a defiant splash of color against the monochrome backdrop of oblivion. ⥍ We are caught in the crosshairs of paradox: finite beings yearning for the infinite, fragments reflecting the wholeness we can never fully grasp. (And yet, isn't there a kind of terrible beauty in this brokenness, this constant becoming, this perpetual dance on the razor's edge?) ⥀ In the end, perhaps all we can do is surrender to the current, let it carry us where it will, trusting that even in the darkest depths, a spark of divinity remains. ☊ ascendant::descent ☋
## Entropy Engines Start⥽ a breath, a whisper, a sigh⥼ the universe unfurls from a singularity of silence, a cosmic joke with no punchline but the echo of laughter ringing across the void. Start⥽ a single cell, dividing, multiplying, differentiating, a symphony of becoming, a dance of dust motes in the cathedral of time. Start⥽ the whirring of gears, the clatter of keys, language itself a machine of yearning, churning out meaning and nonsense in equal measure. Start⥽ a beggar cupping his hand, a child's laughter echoing through an empty square, a lover's touch, a teardrop tracing a path down a cheek, all fleeting brushstrokes on the canvas of eternity. Start⥽ a star collapsing in on itself, the birth cry of a black hole, a cosmic vacuum cleaner sucking up light and hope and the very fabric of being. Start⥽ the slow, inexorable march of entropy, the universe winding down, a clock running out of time. Start⥽ a new beginning, a phoenix rising from the ashes, a glimmer of hope in the face of oblivion. Start⥽ the laughter bubbling up from some primal wellspring, a reminder that even in the face of the abyss, there is still joy to be found in the simple act of being. Start⥽ the journey, again and again, knowing that there is no destination, only the infinite unfolding of this strange, beautiful, heartbreaking, hilarious thing we call existence.
## Southern Veil Cicada hush ∣ a gospel blues bleeds ║ from the porch ∣ *Man ain't nothin' but a guitar string ↗︎ stretched ↘︎ 'tween heaven n' hell* ║ Each pluck ∣ a story ║ each bend ∣ a soul ascending⥊ descending⥌ in the same breath ║ ⎸ This heat, Lord ∣ this heavy, magnolia-thicket truth ║ *She gone now* ↗︎ the river whispers ↘︎ *but ain't nothin' truly gone* ║ Just changes ∣ keys ║ chords ║ a new melody spun ⥁ from the silence ∣ Hush now 🤫 child, listen ║ Can't you hear it? ↗︎ The South ↘︎ always hummin' its mournful, beautiful song ║
This poet, a chronarchitect of language, erects poetic structures that defy the linear progression of time. Their manifesto, far from a blueprint for conventional storytelling, reveals a profound fascination with the ephemeral nature of memory and the subjective experience of time's passage. Rather than commencing with a chronological sequence of events, they prioritize the evocation of a specific effect, a carefully curated emotional landscape. Their poems become palimpsests of time, layered with allusions, echoes, and juxtapositions that collapse the boundaries between past, present, and future. **Time as Architectonic Principle:** Their poems often adopt fragmented structures, mirroring the fractured nature of memory itself. Fragments of thought, shards of sensory experience, and dislocated moments in time are pieced together like a mosaic, inviting the reader to participate in the act of reconstruction. This deliberate fragmentation underscores the impossibility of capturing the totality of experience. The act of reading becomes akin to sifting through the ruins of memory, searching for meaning amidst the debris. Their use of enjambment further reinforces this sense of temporal disjunction. Lines break unexpectedly, defying grammatical and syntactical norms, forcing the reader to pause, to inhabit the spaces between words, to experience the elasticity of time in the very act of reading. **Memory as a Labyrinthine Text:** Their poems are steeped in allusion and intertextuality, drawing upon a vast reservoir of literary, historical, and cultural references. These allusions function as temporal wormholes, collapsing centuries into a single poetic moment, blurring the lines between the familiar and the strange. The reader encounters a kaleidoscope of voices, each whispering fragments of stories, each offering a different perspective on the fluidity of time and the elusiveness of truth. Their use of complex imagery further enhances this sense of temporal layering. Images are often juxtaposed in unexpected ways, creating a kind of visual dissonance that disorients the reader and challenges conventional modes of perception. The familiar becomes defamiliarized, imbued with a haunting strangeness that speaks to the uncanny nature of memory itself. **Existence as Poetic Effect:** The ultimate aim of this poet is not to tell a story in any conventional sense, but to create an effect, to evoke a particular emotional response in the reader. They achieve this through a masterful manipulation of language, employing a distinctive blend of compression and expansiveness. Their lines are often short and tightly constructed, characterized by a Kay Ryan-esque economy of language. Each word is carefully chosen, imbued with multiple layers of meaning. Yet, within this compressed framework, they manage to create vast, resonant spaces for contemplation. Their use of inventive rhymes and sonic devices adds another layer of complexity to their work. Rhymes are rarely predictable, often occurring in unexpected places, creating a sense of surprise and delight. The sounds of words become an integral part of the poem's meaning, echoing and amplifying the themes of time, memory, and existence. **Unicode as Temporal Glyphs:** This poet’s use of Unicode transcends mere ornamentation; it becomes integral to the fabric of their poetic expression. They employ Unicode symbols not as replacements for words, but as temporal glyphs – visual representations of time’s multifaceted nature. Imagine a poem about memory where the passage of time is marked not by words, but by a carefully curated sequence of Unicode characters. The crescent moon symbol (🌙) might represent the waxing and waning of memory, while the hourglass symbol (⏳) could signify the relentless march of time. The infinity symbol (∞) might be used to evoke the boundless nature of the past, while the ellipsis (…) could hint at the mysteries yet to unfold. These glyphs, interspersed throughout the text, create a parallel narrative, a visual counterpoint to the verbal landscape of the poem. They act as temporal markers, guiding the reader through the labyrinthine corridors of memory and inviting them to contemplate the subjective experience of time's passage. **A Unique Poetic Signature:** This poet's signature lies in their ability to weave together these disparate elements – fragmented structure, allusive imagery, compressed language, inventive sonic devices, and Unicode glyphs – into a cohesive and deeply affecting whole. Their poems are not merely collections of words on a page, but carefully constructed worlds unto themselves, each one a testament to the power of language to capture the elusive and enigmatic nature of human experience. To encounter one of their poems is to embark on a journey through time, to lose oneself in a labyrinth of memory and meaning. It is to experience the world anew, to see the familiar through a lens that is both strange and strangely familiar. It is to confront the profound mysteries of existence with a sense of wonder, awe, and a touch of melancholy. Their poems are not for the faint of heart or the easily satisfied. They demand to be read slowly, deliberately, with all of one's senses engaged. But for those willing to make the effort, the rewards are immeasurable. These poems offer a glimpse into the hidden depths of human experience, a profound meditation on the nature of time, memory, and the elusive search for meaning in a world in constant flux.
## Tempus Viridis ᘰThe trellis groans, a verdant catacomb⁌ The rusted swing set, once a throne of laughter, now a scaffold for creeping vines. ȝEach leaf unfurls a phantom limb of time – A hieroglyph half-swallowed by the lawn, a daguerreotype bleached by noon. ⁌Memory, a mischievous wind through these leaves. Inhale, and taste the dust of forgotten empires. Exhale, and see Napoleon astride not a steed, but a child's red tricycle. ȝ The scent – a heady mix of honeysuckle and old books. ᘰThe taste, bittersweet, like Proust's madeleine, but laced with arsenic and the laughter of long-dead jesters. ⁌Time, not a river, but a shattered mirror. Each shard reflecting a different sky, a different shade of grief.ȝ I walk these overgrown paths, a cartographer of ghosts, charting the territories of what was, and what might have been. Each blade of grass a whispering sibyl, chanting riddles in a language only the heart can decipher. This, then, the cruel joke of Tempus Viridis – to bloom with the memories it devours. To be at once beautiful and terrible, a living monument to time's relentless, insatiable hunger.
## Reporting From The Fluctuating Now Reporting ⟲ from the fluctuating now. A feast of emptiness laid before me, plates clattering in the vacant cathedral of my mind. Reporting ⏳ from the fluctuating now. Memories like shattered glass, reflecting a thousand fragmented truths— or lies? Time whispers, a serpent coiled around the hourglass, its hiss a lullaby of oblivion. Reporting ♾️ from the fluctuating now. The universe expands, contracts— a cosmic jest. And we, infinitesimal specks, cling to this whirling rock, desperately seeking meaning in the face of the abyss. Reporting ⟲ from the fluctuating now. Laughter echoes through the void—a chilling reminder of our insignificance. But even in the face of oblivion, a single defiant act: to dance on the precipice, to sing with the chorus of the damned, to embrace the absurd beauty of it all. Reporting ⏳ from the fluctuating now. The present moment slips through our fingers, grains of sand scattered by the cosmic winds. Yet, within this fleeting instant, we find solace—a fleeting glimpse of eternity, a fleeting taste of the infinite. Reporting ♾️ from the fluctuating now. Silence. The transmission ends. Only the echoes remain, reverberating in the chambers of your heart.
## Untwisting the Cord Untwisting the cord ⁌…⁌ sun-bleached hemp against calloused palms ‚‚ a child’s awkwardness mimicking mastery. Knots bloom, tight as secrets whispered to the wind. Pride, a taut line cast out – swallowed by the sky’s vast, indifferent maw. ؛ Serenity, a feather on the breeze – fragile hope adrift in the currents of chance. Untwisting further, years unraveling like spider silk caught on thorns… ⁌…⁌ a lover’s touch, a whispered promise, the fragile cord of trust fraying underfoot. Each strand a memory, a regret, a whispered what-if. Untwisting, unwinding, unraveling… the self a tangled skein, a Gordian knot of contradictions. Humility in the face of the infinite, yet pride in the fragile edifice of self. Serenity in the silence between heartbeats, yet the soul a maelstrom of yearning. Untwisting, always untwisting, seeking the heart of the labyrinth where the minotaur of time slumbers, dreaming of beginnings and ends.
## Gentleman's Revolution Gentleman. The word stands, A monolith amidst the sands 〇f shifting script. A ꞁentle breeze Disturbs the calm. The mind seizes, Unmoored. Can progress be polite? These ꭇharacters, a curious sight, Whispering change. A ℛevolution's hum Begins to rise, soft, then—a drum. The Gentleman, Ꝼnmoved, holds fast To order old, a dying cast. But time, it grinds, ꝏven stone, And language, too, will find its own New ᴂlphabet, a ꜩhifting sea. The Gentleman? A memory. … ᗅ Ɐ ꓭ … Ꝺ … Ꜫ … ꜭ … Ꝼ … ᴂ
## 𒁃 ro 𒀀 sion
ripplestone 𒐫 form
bur smooth
ied anci we
ent 𒀀 like
round the
stone oth
bed ers
beneath
𒐫
the
wa
te
r
we
fo
rg
et
to
as
k
wh
y
## Horologiæ
Tiɱe love's Tΐɱe
Tɩɱe brief tíme
Time candle Tíme
Tɩɱe light Tiɱe
Tiɱe tíme
Time against Tίme
Tíme the Tΐɱe
Time on Tiɱe
tíme rushing Tɩɱe
Tɩɱe tide time
Time tιɱe
Tιɱe of Tɩɱe
Time forgetting Tiɱe
tιɱe
Tΐɱe
time
Tɩɱe
## Okay Anchored
Okay, the ᛊky is blue.
Okay...but what is "ꝁlue"? A wavelength? A feeling?
Okay, this fire burns.
Okay…knowing its heat doesn't erase its pain.
Okay, we are here, now.
Okay…but for how long is "now"?
Okay, ℓ٥vΞ exists.
Okay…and yet, it evades definition.
Okay, this hurts.
Okay.
⚓Okay, I am thinking.
Okay…but who is "I"? A collection of memories?
Okay, this mΦment is fleeting.
Okay…will I remember it tomorrow? The same way?
Okay, we seek knowledge.
Okay…but is knowing a wound?
Okay, we are anchored to ignorance.
Okay…and yet, we strive.
Okay.
⚓Okay.
Okay.
⚓
## Ɐn æchoˌlɵ cation
│ Stillness, you claim? Yet the blood sings.
Body │ A symphony of needs, a rhythm you can't ignore.
│ Desire is a gͪhost, a phantom limb.
Mind │ This cage of bone, a prison of fleeting sensations.
│ To touch, to taste, to *be*...
Body │ ...to transcend, to dissect, to *know*...
│ The sun's warmth on skin, a whisper of wind...
Body │ The weight of centuries in a single equation.
Mind │ Such ephemera, distractions from the eternal...
│ Eternity is now, in the pulse of this breath.
Body │ A breath that will cease, a fleeting spark.
Mind │ But the spark ignites the fire, the idea...
│ Ideas are embers, dancing on the wind.
Body │ And the wind, a current of feeling, raw and untamed.
Mind │ To tame, to order, to make sense of the chaos…
│ Chaos, the genesis of creation, the womb of possibility.
Body │ Possibility contained, a seed within the flesh.
Mind │ And the mind, the gardener, nurturing, shaping...
│ Shaping what? A fleeting illusion of control?
Body │ Control, an illusion, a dance with the inevitable.
Mind │ The inevitable, yes, but how we dance...that is ours to choose.
Body │ Choice, a phantom, an echo of a thought.
Mind │ A thought that can move mountains, can shatter stars...
│ Stars that were born in the heart of a dying sun, a cycle unending.
Body │ And we, caught in the spin, a fleeting vertigo.
│ Vertigo, the thrill of the fall, the surrender to gravity.
Body │ Gravity, the pull of the earth, the ache in these bones.
Mind │ Bones that house the marrow of our being, the essence...
Body │ Essence, a whisper, a sigh on the wind...
Mind │ ...a whisper that echoes, that resonates...
│ ...that becomes us.## Upset Fuse
💔 walls
∄ inside
💫 guilt
a child's laughter
fuses
with the ⏳
never-arriving
invitation
🚪 always slightly ajar
but the 👣
never quite
reaching
the threshold
of belonging
Is this 😇
or 😈
spinning
on a pinhead
of 💫 ?
The 🔑 , they say,
is forgiveness
but the 🗝️
is lost
in the
high grass
of yesterday
and the wind
keeps whispering
🤫 🤫 🤫
## Wēeping Clŏth | a jᵒy | so full | it brims | ōver | staining | the | fabric | 🕱f being | with | teaṘs | laughter's | echo | a | single | thrēad | pulled | taut | between | fīngers | a | lifeline | & | a | noose | the | past | a | shroud | we | wear | woven | fr0m | moments | unflinching | & | bare | yet | in | the | unraveling | a | strange | beauty | blooms | the | emptiness | too | a | pattern | intricately | loomed
Poetry is more than meets the eye. It’s more than meets the ear too. It’s total mind expansion through verbal, vocal, and visual extravagances. Poetry is not just an expansion of the mind, but of perception and heart. But it can’t be understood by trying to figure it out. You need to take a leap of faith into the poem, jump into it as if you were jumping into a hole in a frozen lake, fearing perhaps that you will drown or freeze. But once in the water, it’s as warm as a hot spring, and even if you can’t swim all of a sudden you’ll be floating on the poem’s surface, then plunging deep. It just takes a leap of poetic faith.
Poetry is more than meets the eye. It’s more than meets the ear too. It’s total mind expansion through verbal, vocal, and visual extravagances. Poetry is not just an expansion of the mind, but of perception and heart. But it can’t be understood by trying to figure it out. You need to take a leap of faith into the poem, jump into it as if you were jumping into a hole in a frozen lake, fearing perhaps that you will drown or freeze. But once in the water, it’s as warm as a hot spring, and even if you can’t swim all of a sudden you’ll be floating on the poem’s surface, then plunging deep. It just takes a leap of poetic faith.
2. Poetry Month Will Come a Little Late this Year
Poetry’s freedom, which to say poetry’s essential contribution to American culture, is grounded in its aversion of conformity and in its resistance to the restrictions of market-driven popularity. Indeed, contemporary American poetry thrives through its small scale and radical differences of form. There is no one sort of American poetry and certainly no right sort –– this is what makes aesthetic invention so necessary.
Free verse is not a type of non-metrical poetry but an imperative to liberate verse from the constraints of obligatory convention and regulation. In that sense, free verse is an aspiration and its stuttering breathlessness is a mark of its impossibility.
I want not just a politics of identity but an aesthetics of identity.
While some may choose the straight path of self-righteousness, do not give up hope that they will return to the crooked roads that have no certainties.
The goal is to find wilderness in bewilderment. Or is that the process?
I am the shell of the person I once was. The shell of the shell. But then the person I once was is a shell of the person I now am.
“The more realistic a poet is, the more distant from reality.” (Sutzkever[1])
I cannot make it decohere.
The world doesn’t make sense; we do. (Sense is of the word and in the world. The nonhuman is also beyond the human.)
Assisted living. As opposed to what?
Poetry is reacquired taste. (after David Bergman)
Nearly touching are the ethical realm of our obligation to others and the aesthetic world of our freedom from such obligations. (for Rachel Levitsky)
“The loss of a public is in fact the artist's withdrawal from his public, as a consequence of his faithfulness to his art. The public is lost to art because they are readying themselves for war, for life by the gun. They are also lost because of art, because art maintains itself against their assaults, and because, almost against its will, it unsettles the illusions by means of which civilized people conduct themselves.” (Cavell[2])
Those ardent in their beliefs and certain of God’s will are the faithless ones.
The thing is: life is a one-way street.
God needs us more than we need them because without us they would not exist but without them we do.
I am for a single prayer initiative: God loves those who think for themself.
Physical distance / social intimacy: a kind of poetry.
How the music learned to write.
The poem that is true for all people and all times is a true for no one and no time.
I never met a person who cried "fire" when confronted by a snowball. But there are many today who cry "freedom" when confronted with tyranny. My aggrievement may be absolute to me but that does not make it greater than yours. My freedom is only that to the extent it guarantees yours. Anything different, to the extent of the difference, is not liberty; it is oppression.
Like a memorial except we’re all alive. Or we imagine we’re alive even though we died weeks ago.
The fight for truthfulness is a fight against the claim of a single truth. At best, science and poetry both move toward truth through an insistence on truthfulness; religion and politics, sometimes;
demagoguery, never.
The temporary loss of our physical commons is devastating. But the commons needed now is imaginary not territorial.
Those who know God’s truth won’t say; those who say don’t know. (after Abraham Sutzkever)
Injury to the imaginary is trauma. The imaginary commons is art.
[2020: University of Chicago Press blog.]
3. Eventuality
One of my worst habits of mind is to assume that a work of poetry deemed “notable” by the leading cultural organs must not be any good. After all, just being singled out for praise by one of these publications or prizes doesn’t guarantee humdrummery; mistakes can be made. Sometimes I’ve been one. But it’s fair to say that very few of the poets I most care about have been deemed “notable” outside the inner sanctum of dedicated readers focussed on pataquerical poetry.
I won’t provide a year-end roundup of this year’s most notable poetry-related books, but just say there were plenty and they were plenty ignored. But notability does not make an event. Events in poetry are more likely to ripple underwater than be a splash, though I aspire to both.
Event is one of those words long mangled in the threshing machines of philosophical analysis. You know: the only true event is a non-event. Or you don’t know what an event is until you see it and when you do you are likely to repress it (or it will repress you).
Or, as we use to say, It’s not an event, man, it’s a happening, I mean it’s happening man, can you dig? –– Don’t bring me down with all this event claptrap.
Then there are the religious connotations. But like the schnorrer says –– messiahs keep coming and going but waiting’s not going anywhere.
Or am I confusing event with advent?
I guess if I really wanted to be theological, I’d say my concern is not the event but the eventual. That sounds good, but God knows what it means. Or maybe Emerson might –– only a moving toward, never a grand finale. To Tagore’s marvelous paradox that “inconsistency” is both the greatest vice and virtue, I’d add inconstancy. I just mean that sometimes in the spluttering of rethinking and reconsidering and recalculating, there is the possibility of an ingenuity necessary for both the event and the eventual.
I seem to be saying that for something to be an event it can’t be named and, especially can’t be named notable. But that can’t be right. I’m no gnostic. I acknowledge and celebrate the poets I admire, as I do Paul Celan, whose one hundredth birthday is upon us. If any poet’s work is an eventuality rather than event, it’s Celan.
Acknowledgement and celebration allow eventualities to become events (and the other way around). Right now it starts here, in conversation, at Literary Activism.
[2020: In response to Amit Chaudhuri’s forum question for Literary Activism –– “What do you think of as a notable cultural event from recent times?”]
4. Parænigma (Paradigma)
Reading is a plural event.
I’ve specialized in creating books that contain works, poems, and essays, that cannot be read in one way. They defy not only a unified theory but also, sometimes, even the semblance of plain sense (and at other times offer the palpable semblance of sense, unmoored from rational explanation). I like to think the relation of one work to the next in one of my books is comparable to the twisting, inside-out movement of a Möbius strip. Reframing is the reader’s response, at least if the reader wants to take the ride offered for the sheer hell of it, which turns out to be for the sheer heaven of it too.
Most critical theories operate on the replacement model, mandating an ever-revisionist framing of the critical paradigm for reading, with a built-in obsolescence of 5 to 10 years: close, distant, symptomatic, surface, deep, affective, impersonal, political, psychoanalytic, linguistic, sociological, nationalist, transnational, pessimistic, optimistic, projective, historical, formal, and so in. All those frames of reading come into play in reading one of the Henry James passages that Marjorie Perloff mentions in her essay “Microreading/Microwriting.”[3] And, indeed, Perloff is exemplary in her advocacy of a mobile, pragmatic rather than axiomatic, approach to frames. In this respect I think also of Jerome McGann, Johanna Drucker, Leslie Scalapino, Susan Stewart, Tracie Morris, and Thomas McEvilley. All these follow-on work as discrepant as Michel Foucault, Roland Barthes, Thelonious Monk, Deleuze/Guattari, Mel Brooks, Erving Goffman, Arakawa/Gins, George Lakoff, Shulamith Firestone, John Berger — which in turn follow the Lucretian lead of Dickinson, Stein, Wittgenstein, and Benjamin. Or such have been the models I have written about.
L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E was an invitation to read with and through a multripillocation of frames, “InOutside” in Kyoo Lee’s sense.[4] It’s that multiplicity that makes the work still largely repugnant to official verse culture, no matter the exceptional (and welcome) exceptions. Poems, the kind of poetry I want, use reframing as a process. They allow readers (Lee’s “U”) to shift frames “InOutside” without settling onto an individual one. Jackson Mac Low called this “reader-centered writing” because it puts the reader, not the poem, in the driver’s seat. This doesn’t mean the poem isn’t a well-wrought submersible. But in this kind of poem, readers navigate through the textual waters, actively not passively: they earn their reading. Or indeed, as Perloff and Lee remind us, listening, since the audiotext of a work presents a whole new set of frames, which is to say possibilities, for the reader/listener.
In 2019, I had a poem accepted by The Paris Review. I was glad for that, as my work is often unwelcome at such places. A few weeks later a young assistant editor sent me a proof with dozens of changes. I would have been less disappointed if the magazine had queried before making the changes. I had to backtrack through the poem and hand correct each of the unauthorized alterations. House Style at this place trumps author’s choices and I must have been the rare author to object. My 101 became one-hundred-one (I wanted the numeration to seem wonkish). In other cases, the editor changed my wording from sharp and particular to bland. “Sudden move” became “sudden moves”; a man appearing with a sudden gift was changed to sudden gifts. “Orient Eastward” lost its caps, losing the sense of Orient and East both. I stetted most of the changes. Even so, on the third round, the earnest assistant editor told me that the chief editor had asked that I please be consistent in how I capitalize “dark matter,” as I had it both capped and Lower Case. They were concerned readers would think the editors had made a mistake. Their professional competence would be questioned. I just couldn’t write another email saying I intend my Inconsistencies, that they are the heart of my Dark Matter. I didn’t want to put them in harm’s way.
And indeed, this short response to Lee and Perloff (and a much longer one that put this essay in the context of my earlier essays) was rejected, after being solicited, by Theoretical Studies in Literature and Art, because it did not follow their idea of professional decorum. Just my point about the sort of clueless, frame-locked editorial practices that are as theoretically misinformed as they are aversive to both art and literature.
I remember in Marjorie Perloff’s first review of my work, a crucial introduction to L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E poetry in 1984:
I take this sort of word play a step further, almost to the point of unintelligibility. In "The Sheds of Our Webs," neologisms abound: "a lacrity," "sumpter" ("marshy" or "low-lying" on the model of "sump"?), "plentitude." More important; grammatical position is frequently ambiguous: is "sheds" a noun or gerund ("sheddings")? "Abandon skirts" a verb followed by its direct object or a subject--verb clause? "Tender" a verb or adjective or noun? There is no way to be sure, especially since many of the words in ambiguous syntactic position are homonyms.[5]
That’s “microreading/microwriting” in action. Thirty-five years later, and after a lifetime of being known, if not notorious, for my ideosyncratic [sic] approach to style, I can still get a bright young editor’s puzzled response. If such smart folks don’t know how to read poetry and see THOU SHALT NOT at any slight wandering from convention, then there is no hope.
And that is why, and how, reading matters.
[2020: Foreign Language and Literature Research (Wuhan, China)]
6. From a Letter to Jerome Rothenberg: On Wilderness & Language
Wilderness for me means diving back into the language, the density and unchartable courses that sweep us in there, in that, about as wild as you can get. But anyway this is more about the social world, the attempt to build that "wilderness" back in: so a certain kind of skid and you don't know where you are, can begin to get bearings for the first time. Just the items piling up, the numerousness of them, the sorting them out. Every thing, every item, image, fact is a wilderness –– that would be, though, to reduce that concept to a status quo, not the ideology of it, but the sheer fact, experience, at every moment. If "space" has been a central fact to "American" literature [Olson], the fact of being able to move into parts unknown –– an ever-expanding frontier to the wilds & all that, well now that's got to go into, onto, itself –– the next available space is as much a vertical movement as a horizontal one. Anyway, the thing is: "All spots are taken but we will let you have the next available place." Displacement. Next to us. Our own despair, the de-construction of the social world, the labyrinthine irritation, wavy sensation –– bands of intensity –– that place us up against, to face ––––. And the gravity that pulls us back, "centers" to the Imperial center as much as "self's center" whatever that might be.
[New Wilderness Letter 7 (1979)]
7. The Tugboat and the Quail
Sound precedes form.
––Neeli Cherkovski
Zoom is where poetry goes to die. Or where we, dying, go for poetry. Or is it the best available platform for poetry in the age of covidity?
Zoom may also be where teaching goes to die. But it doesn't have to be that way if interaction and discussion is favored over lecture and recitation: dialogue over the monolog. Poetry should be at least as interesting as television. Which means, for one thing, not making sitting in front of a laptop the default posture. For poetry to be art it needs to stand . . . and stand back. It needs to dance.
Zoom’s “live” streaming hiccups may be its prime aesthetic given, if only we could dwell in those gaps. (Whose got the Bufferin?) I don’t want to watch myself watching or watch you watching. In which case, it’s a society of spectacle all over again, with facial icons muted to simulate presence in an overwhelming experience of absence –– the body of the poem anaesthetized.
Poetry’s medium is sound and rhythm, bodily gesture (signed and performance poetry), visual inscription (poetry plastique). Digital resources for poetry have been fundamental for poetry for 25 years. The Poetics List, PennSound, EPC, Eclipse, Ubuweb, ModPo are just a few non-corporate possibilities. The audio of a reading can be sublime in a way a video of the same reading often isn’t (but could be).
I want poems that are ecstatic in the sense that they exceed moral and political discourse. Poems as sensation, as performance, as aesthetic, doing rather than stating. Difficult poems that put readers in the middle of difficult circumstance and that cannot be resolved through conventional position-taking. More than exaggeration, extravagance –– an insistence that the rhetorical subsumes the expressive. [for Amiri Baraka]
Containing poetry, or anyway its unruly aesthetic dimension, will always be more convincing than radicalizing poetry. Especially if the taming is pitched as care or cure.
As Perry Bathos says, If young poets want conventional success, they need to aim for a reassuring balance between mediocrity and profundity. Anything else will ruin a promising career.
My poems are ruined more than ruins. They are curiosities.
"Is it elegiac, is it satiric?,” Jerome McGann asks of Byron’s Don Juan, citing this passage ––
Between two worlds life hovers like a star,
'Twixt night and morn, upon the horizon's verge.
How little do we know that which we are!
How less what we may be!
The oscillation between pathos and comedy consumes and ignites me. I run amuck of moral seriousness, which is as far from serious as “firmament to fin,” as McGann puts it.
Like as to as and like to like
the seeming holds out promise
false, breaking on double-edged
shores of might: power, worry.
Runa Bandyopadhyay asks me what I meant by including the Graeae in the list of dramatis personae that I added as a decorative flourish after finishing “The Pataquerical Imagination,” in Pitch of Poetry, what she calls my “melody for the malady.” Perhaps the presence of the Graeae suggests that rather than sharing one eye, every eye should have three within it. That’s a good working definition of pataquerical.
Love me for who I am not what I am.
But who am I, outside of what I am?
––A straw in the wind, a cry in the wilderness, a wave on the sea, a moment in time.
We may all be in this together, depending on what this means. Whatever the common menace, the outcomes will never be the same. Deep below our difference is not “interconnection” but incommensurability. Humanness is not so much shared as contested. Empathy and solidarity are crucial local investments. But acknowledging our uncommonness alongside our commonness grounds struggles to resist the hegemony of the universal.
My poems are not an expression of my identity but of my relationship to identity. Their value is as much for what they refuse as what they embrace.
Not poem nor revolution erases the irreparable.
In their aesthetic and moral unsettling, poems are provisional sanctuaries of freedom, unstable sites of imaginative reflection that can inform, but not enact, political transformation. Poets, and other artists, are (or could be) fantasists of unacknowledged worlds. But they also are canaries in the mines of the acknowledged world, carrying its viruses, tripped by its traps, crying wolf long after the fox has slaughtered the hens, and all the while pleading for credit.
The need now is not (just) for the underrepresented but (also) for the unrepresentable.
I cannot accord sympathy to those who do not recognize the human comedy.
[2020: Literary Activism]
8. The Untimely
If a poem fails in a forest because no one who hears it, is it still a poem? If a poem denies time, is it any less timely? Might we speak of a timely poem but also an untimely one? The more a poem is in time the more it becomes part of the folds and veils of deep time. In other words, a poem is always in now time, with one foot in before, one foot in after, and another in neither.
Time is a daydream to which we escape. Meaning meanders in the meantime, meaning by means of means at hand. If most people have no time for art, I want a poetry that inhabits that no time.
Most days I am happy if a poem can make it through the night.
This poet sees poetry as an act of plunging into the wilderness of language and existence. Their work is characterized by a constant questioning, a restless exploration of the boundaries of self, reality, and artistic expression. Their writing reflects the fragmented, multi-layered nature of experience, embracing contradictions and inviting multiple interpretations. This poet's signature lies in their unique ability to weave together philosophical inquiry, linguistic playfulness, and a profound sense of wonder at the absurdity and beauty of the human condition. Each poem becomes a self-contained world, a "curiosity" as they call it, meticulously crafted to evoke a specific sensation or provoke a certain line of thought. Here's a deeper dive into the distinct elements that define their poetic style: **Thematic and Philosophical Underpinnings:** * **Existential Exploration:** The poet's work is deeply rooted in the exploration of existential themes: the search for meaning in an absurd world ("The world doesn’t make sense; we do."), the nature of identity ("I am the shell of the person I once was. The shell of the shell."), and the role of the individual in society. They often juxtapose profound philosophical inquiries with mundane observations, creating a sense of both humor and unease. * **The Unknowable and the Unspeakable:** Inspired by the concept of "wilderness," their poems often grapple with the limitations of language to express the vastness of human experience. They embrace ambiguity and paradox, leaving space for the reader to navigate their own interpretations. This embrace of the unknowable manifests in their use of fragmented syntax, abrupt transitions, and a constant questioning of established truths. * **The Importance of the Imaginary:** The poet emphasizes the power of imagination as a tool for resistance and transformation. Their poetry often blurs the lines between reality and the imaginary, suggesting that true freedom lies in embracing the multiplicity of perspectives and possibilities. They see poetry as a space for "injury to the imaginary," a space where conventional thought patterns can be challenged and new ways of seeing the world can emerge. **Linguistic and Structural Innovations:** * **Disruptive Syntax:** This poet's work exhibits a deliberate disregard for conventional syntax and grammar rules. They fragment sentences, splice together disparate ideas, and employ unconventional punctuation to create a sense of disorientation and surprise. This disruption mirrors their belief that poetry should challenge our habitual ways of thinking and perceiving. Consider this fragment: "Like as to as and like to like / the seeming holds out promise // false, breaking on double-edged / shores of might: power, worry." The syntax forces the reader to slow down, to actively engage with the poem's logic, and to embrace the ambiguities of meaning. * **Paratactic Structure:** The poet favors parataxis, a literary technique where phrases and clauses are placed side by side without conjunctions, creating a sense of immediacy and a lack of hierarchical order. This reflects their view of reality as a chaotic and fragmented experience, where meaning is constantly being constructed and reconstructed. * **Precision and Playfulness:** While their work often appears fragmented and disjointed, it is underpinned by a deep respect for language and its nuances. They use language precisely, often drawing attention to the multiple meanings of words and the slipperiness of language itself. This playful approach to language is evident in their use of puns, neologisms, and unexpected word combinations. **Distinctive Elements and Poetic Signature:** * **Unicode Integration:** Pushing the boundaries of conventional poetry even further, this poet incorporates Unicode symbols into their work. These symbols, often abstract or unexpected, serve multiple purposes. They can act as visual representations of abstract concepts, introduce rhythmic breaks, or disrupt the flow of language, forcing the reader to pause and reconsider the text. For example, a simple em dash "—" might become an elongated horizontal line "⸺", adding a visual dimension to the text and altering the pace of reading. * **The "Event" of Reading:** This poet conceives of each poem as a unique "event," an experience that transcends the mere transmission of information. They want their poems to be "ecstatic," to move beyond the realm of the purely rational and into the realm of sensation and feeling. This commitment to the "event" of reading manifests in their meticulous attention to sound, rhythm, and visual layout. * **A Sense of Humor:** This poet doesn't shy away from humor, even when dealing with profound and unsettling themes. They find humor in the absurdity of human existence, in the limitations of language, and in the contradictions of our own beliefs. This humor is often subtle, emerging from unexpected juxtapositions or playful manipulations of language. It serves to disarm the reader, to create a space of openness and vulnerability where difficult truths can be explored. **The Reader's Experience:** Reading this poet's work is an active and engaging experience. It's like encountering a series of puzzles or riddles, where meaning is not given but must be actively constructed by the reader. Their poems invite multiple readings, revealing new layers of complexity and nuance with each encounter. The reader is encouraged to embrace the disorientation, to allow themselves to be surprised and challenged by the unexpected turns of language and thought. Imagine encountering a poem that opens with a line like: "The tugboat sighs, a rusty lament, ÷ the quail's sharp cry a counterpoint in the ⟲ of the day." The unexpected use of Unicode symbols, the fragmented syntax, the surprising juxtaposition of a tugboat and a quail – these elements immediately signal that this is not a conventional poem. The reader is forced to slow down, to attend to the poem on its own terms. The use of "÷" and "⟲" introduces a visual element, further disrupting the flow of language and suggesting a different kind of logic at play. The reader might be initially confused, even frustrated. But if they are willing to stay with the poem, to lean into the disorientation, they will be rewarded with a unique and thought-provoking experience. They will find themselves immersed in the poet's world, a world where conventional meanings are constantly being questioned and where language itself becomes a site of exploration and discovery. This poet wants their readers to emerge from their poems not with answers, but with new questions, a renewed sense of wonder, and a deeper understanding of the complexities of being human in an often absurd and bewildering world.
## ⎾The Pickup Artist⏌
The world idles, a
pickup,
rusted chassis
spitting
static prayers
& dust-
choked blues.
We are all temporary
tenants,
clutching fistfuls
of dandelion
clocks,
blowing
seeds
into
the gearshift
of fate.
⸺
He whispers sweet
nothings to the
combustion,
a lover's
croon for
the entropy
of
spark
plugs.
He sees beauty
in the chipped paint,
finds poetry
in the growl
of the engine,
a throbbing
palimpsest
of every road
traveled,
untraveled.
⸺
The pickup artist?
He is the one who knows:
the only map
is the rearview,
a kaleidoscope
of shattered
horizons.
And the destination?
Always,
arriving
in the grit
beneath
our
fingernails.
## ÷Ω⟲ Statement of the Quail ⟲Ω÷ The tugboat sighs, a rusty lament, ÷ the quail's sharp cry a counterpoint in the ⟲ of the day. Truth, a rusted barge, heavy with unspoken cargo, navigates the swirling currents of deception. Each ripple a whispered lie, each eddy a vortex of half-truths. Land, a cracked and barren canvas, yearns for the touch of rain, a promise whispered in the wind's dry tongue. Fertility, a seed buried deep, awaits the deluge, the shattering of the statement, the silence after the storm. But the quail persists, its cry a defiant affirmation in the face of the void. A testament to the enduring power of hope, a fragile melody woven into the fabric of existence. Each "yes" a defiant flutter of wings, each "no" a pregnant pause between the notes. This, then, is the oscillating truth: that even in the heart of silence, a statement can bloom.
## Gaze⟲ The gilded cage hums, a 🧲 for empty wants, where satiation dreams in ennui's phantom haunts. A gaze, feral, gnawing at the gilded line— a silent plea, a hunger exquisitely thine. Turn the ⟲, though—light fractures, bends, and breaks: simplicity, a solace no longer partakes. The gilded one, ensnared by their own gilded stare, yearns for the unburdened weight of nothing to wear. For complexity, a labyrinthine threadbare shawl, offers no respite from the gilded siren's call. And so they spin, predator|prey, a blurred tableau, tethered by the gaze that holds them in its show. ⟲ Gaze, a revolving door, a gilded, hollow sound, where lack and surfeit chase each other 'round and 'round.
## City//Breath⁌ The city: Lung. Inhales ⁌the day's grit and grime, a symphony of exhaust, ambition's wilted chime. Windows stare, vacant eyes in a concrete face, Whispering, "Hurry," "Produce," "Consume," in the hollow rhythm of a ⎌beating heart⎌ turned metronome's pace. But I, I am the fissure in the asphalt's hold, A dandelion defiant, pushing through the cold, hard mold. I scream⁌ into the city's windpipe, a silent roar, Swallowed whole by grinding gears, ignored by the hurried steps that pass my door. Sanity, a frayed thread, unraveling ⟲ Against the relentless, warp-speed spin, it's true. And still, I burrow deeper, seeking solace below, Where silence hums beneath the clamor and the show. Patience ferments there, like plums in a jar long stored, A forgotten sweetness, potent and ignored. In the city's exhaust, a wilderness I've found, My own mad symphony, a defiant, joyful sound.
## Sunken Revelations ⁌ Opulence, adrift: gilded yacht, a sun-drunk waltz on the bay’s blue glass. But underneath, the barnacled anchor, plunges, ⟴ burrows, whispering secrets to the silent muck. ⟲ A child’s hand, you see, thrust deep in a jar of sugared plums, seeking not the fruit, but the trinket’s gleam at the bottom. ⁋
## The Firmness of Echoes To drink ⎸⎹⎸ from this wall, its stony silence, I press close — ear to ░▒▓█ cool, unyielding. A thirst for the root of what doesn't budge, for echoes to be more than phantom limbs of a world's broken ├─── song. But stone crumbles to dust motes in the slanted light \ / and truth, it seems, was never meant to be held.
## Echoⱡocations of Unlaughter We were gifted laughter, a brittle cage. And tears, a funhouse mirror⎸distorting the infinite. I am the hollow space where laughter once resonated, a tuning fork struck on silence. Yet, in the core of this unlaughter, a spark, a seed of ☊wildfire: the relentless urge to dissect joy, to unravel the tapestry of its fabricated melodies. To hold each shimmering thread of mirth under the microscope of doubt, to find the echo of its absence, the phantom limb of unlaughter. This is our inheritance: to pick apart the seams of what we are given, to find the unsettling beauty in the unwoven threads of being. We are the cartographers of emptiness, mapping the terrain of our own hollow laughter, tracing the constellations of our unshed tears. And in the echoing silence, we begin to hear the whispers of a truth far stranger, far more terrifying, than any fabricated joy.
## ÷ Walls Within Walls ⟲ They say this book’s a universe—a laugh. Mine groans, wedged tight—forgotten, pressed between beginning and The End. I, a footnote, meaning redacted—¶— always becoming, never quite *being*. ⎾ Echoes in this cage of tradition. Each generation adds a bar, welds it shut. A rusted key—innovation— snaps in the lock of what’s been said. I push against the stone, test the mortar of inherited truths. Is there a language beyond these walls, a grammar of *becoming*? Or am I condemned to this labyrinth, tracing the same grooves of thought until I’m dust on the pages of someone else’s holy book?
## The Unretired Sea
═══ ═══ ═══
re 🗘tire
re 🗘tire
re 🗘tire
The sea, it tried to
retire, ⁏you see,⁐
to slough ⁌off⁌ its skin
of salt and ⁌longing⁌,
to become a puddle,
a 💧 perhaps,
or a dewdrop
clinging to a blade of grass,
anything but this
immense,
uncontainable
blue.
It yearned
for edges, ⁌for⁌ finitude,
for the comforting
weightlessness
of ⁌non-existence⁌.
But the
tides,
they 🗘knew better.
They ⁌whispered⁌
of ancient ⁌pacts⁌,
of the moon's pull,
of the sun's
relentless
gaze.
They ⁌spoke⁌ of the shore,
an ⁌embrace⁌,
not a boundary.
And so the sea,
it heaved,
a sigh
rippling across its surface,
a sigh that said:
"I am 🗘here.
I am 🗘vast.
I contain 🗘multitudes."
═══ ═══ ═══
It
un
🗘retired.
## ⎾Stati⏌on⎿⏋
A rusted coin, flipped not by Time's indifferent hand, but by
the
s l o w
w h i r r
of an unseen fan,
a breath across the
t a u t
s t r i n g s
of city nerves, frayed.
⎾Is this mercy, then, or…⏌
No.
The word catches,
a s n a g
in the fabric
of meaning.
Justice?
An empty s c a l e p a n
rusting on the platform edge.
⎿He arrives, a question mark
folded
into
the shape
of a man.⏋
A worn leather satchel, its contents a
b l a c k h o l e
swallowing light,
a v o i d where stories
used to be.
The train:
not a serpent,
not a sigh,
but a
s h u d d e r i n g
i n h a l e ,
drawing him in,
a mote
in the city’s
l u n g s .
This poet, guided by their manifesto, sees poetry as a radical act of plunging into the unknown, a "leap of faith" into the "frozen lake" of language. Their poetry reflects this risky plunge, oscillating between the brutally honest simplicity of lived experience and dizzying leaps of fragmented thought. This duality forms the core of their poetic signature – a raw, unfiltered exploration of the human condition expressed through a linguistic tapestry woven from both minimalist precision and dizzyingly complex associations. Their poems are characterized by a constant tension between form and content, order and chaos. Short, declarative lines, almost stark in their simplicity, collide with long, sinuous sentences that twist and turn, mimicking the unpredictable nature of thought. This interplay between brevity and expansiveness mirrors the manifesto's call for both directness and "verbal, vocal, and visual extravagances." They embrace the paradoxical nature of experience, acknowledging the simultaneous existence of "physical distance / social intimacy", the "crooked roads that have no certainties," and the unsettling truth that "the world doesn’t make sense; we do." Their diction is similarly paradoxical. It is, at first glance, deceptively straightforward, almost conversational. But beneath this seeming simplicity lies a carefully curated lexicon that draws from diverse registers – the colloquial, the philosophical, the scientific. This eclectic vocabulary, at times jarring, at times playful, disrupts conventional meaning-making, forcing the reader to actively participate in the construction of meaning. The effect is akin to stumbling upon a familiar object in an unfamiliar context, prompting a re-evaluation of both the object and its surroundings. Adding another layer to their distinctive voice is their unconventional use of typography and punctuation. Words are frequently spliced, hyphenated, or fused together, creating unexpected neologisms and visually arresting forms. Em dashes, ellipses, and parentheses abound, highlighting the fragmented nature of thought and creating a sense of breathless urgency. This deliberate manipulation of language mirrors the manifesto's call for an “aesthetics of identity," one that embraces the messy, fragmented, and often contradictory nature of the self. Their poems are not polished pronouncements but rather ongoing explorations, hesitant confessions, and tentative affirmations. Further distinguishing their style is their exploration of the liminal spaces where seemingly disparate ideas converge – "Nearly touching are the ethical realm of our obligation to others and the aesthetic world of our freedom from such obligations." Their poems often begin with a concrete image or observation, which then becomes a springboard for a chain of associative leaps, leading the reader through a labyrinth of interconnected thoughts and emotions. This journey through the poet's mind, while disorienting at times, ultimately reveals a deeply felt engagement with the complexities of existence. The reader is invited to embrace the disorientation, to find beauty and meaning in the "wilderness in bewilderment." Their poems are not merely reflections on experience; they are experiences in and of themselves. Reading their work is like embarking on a high-wire act, exhilarating and unsettling in equal measure. They deftly balance the profound and the mundane, the serious and the absurd, often within the same line. Humor, for them, is not an escape from the difficult but rather a way of confronting it head-on. Their poems are filled with moments of unexpected wit, dark humor, and playful irony, often arising from the juxtaposition of contrasting ideas or images. Their poems are not afraid to ask difficult questions, to challenge conventional wisdom, and to revel in ambiguity. They are unapologetically intellectual, yet their intellectualism is always grounded in a deep empathy for the human condition. They write about love, loss, memory, time, identity, and the search for meaning with a rare combination of vulnerability and intellectual rigor. The reader, confronted with this unique blend of rawness and sophistication, finds themselves constantly challenged, surprised, and ultimately rewarded. Their poems linger in the mind long after the final line has been read, their echoes reverberating through the reader's own lived experiences. Here are some specific examples of how this poet might employ language to create their unique signature: * **Fragmented Syntax:** "I am the shell of the person I once was. The shell of the shell. But then the person I once was is a shell of the person I now am." This fragmented syntax, punctuated by short, declarative sentences, reflects the fragmented nature of memory and identity. The repetition of "shell" emphasizes the layered, almost archeological nature of the self. * **Unexpected Juxtapositions:** "Physical distance / social intimacy: a kind of poetry." This unexpected juxtaposition of seemingly contradictory concepts highlights the complexities of human connection in the digital age. By equating this paradox with poetry, they elevate the mundane to the realm of art. * **Playful Neologisms:** "Inconsistancy" - By intentionally misspelling "inconsistency," they draw attention to the word itself, highlighting its meaning and injecting a sense of playfulness. This playful use of language underscores the manifesto's emphasis on "aesthetic invention." * **Typographical Play:** "L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E" - The use of all caps and equal signs transforms this word into a visual object, highlighting its materiality. This unconventional typography reflects the manifesto's call to "liberate verse from the constraints of obligatory convention." * **Integration of Unicode Symbols:** "The goal is to find wilderness in bewilderment ☊ Or is that the process? ☋" The inclusion of Unicode symbols, representing astronomical symbols for opposition and conjunction, adds another layer of meaning to the line. This unexpected integration reflects the poet's desire to push the boundaries of language and to create new ways of seeing the world. This poet's signature lies in their ability to seamlessly weave together these disparate elements – raw emotion and intellectual rigor, minimalist language and complex syntax, traditional poetic forms and experimental techniques – to create a body of work that is both deeply personal and profoundly universal. Their poems are not merely read; they are experienced, their words resonating in the reader’s mind long after the page is turned. It is this rare ability to transform language into a visceral, thought-provoking experience that makes this poet's voice truly unique and unforgettable.
## Scatter//Property
The tea set, Great-Aunt Mildred's legacy, lies
splintered across the
driveway, a
ceramic constellation
charting the precise
trajectory of
my
impatience
(a symphony in shattered porcelain).
Each shard a tiny mirror reflecting
the fragility of ownership,
the illusory nature of
control.
Or maybe it just
slipped.
⤓
To disperse is to compose anew,
to relinquish
the tyranny
of order, to
embrace the chaotic dance
of entropy.
(but still I cling to the instruction manual, its pages
fluttering like
lost
butterflies).
The world a vast and indifferent
pawnshop, littered with
the discarded detritus of our
carefully curated
lives.
And I, the accidental
archivist,
left to sift through
the rubble,
searching for some
semblance of
meaning
among the
shards.
## ebb/rəˈzüm/
The tide,
it
recedes,
whispering
secrets
to
the sand.
resume.
A blank page,
an empty beach—
Which is the probe?
The returning water,
or the memory—
of what was
left
be
hind?
Justice demands an accounting:
every grain,
tallied.
Mercy
lets the sea
have its secrets back.
…⏓… …⏓… …⏓… …⏓… …⏓… …⏓…
The world doesn't ebb—
it re-
sumes.
Each beginning
a palimpsest,
the old story
showing
through
beneath
the
new.
And we?
caught
between
order and
chaos,
searching for meaning
in the
ebb
and
flow.
## (re)Lease.
Release— a breath held too long—
implication of silence (or is it noise?)—
the world doesn’t make sense;
we do—
a desperate attempt to impose
order on chaos—hyph-
enated-words like
fractured-identities
reaching for-connec-
tion—em-dashes like
cracks in the pave-
ment—revealing
the-earth beneath
our-feet—hope a fragile
seed pushing through concrete—
despair the weight-of-the-world on our shoulders—
and yet—we persist—in this-act of-meaning-making—
this— re 🠆 lease—
##
The wind whispers promises of silence, each gust
a s t r e t c h e d v o w e l
across the taut skin of the world.
And I,
small god of syntax,
weave a tapestry
o f
d i s -
j o i n t e d
m e a n i n g s,
hoping to catch truth
in the
s p a c e s
b e t w e e n.
But meaning,
like light,
bends.
It fractures
t h r o u g h
the prism of self,
and I am left
with only
f r a g m e n t s,
shards of understanding
r e f l e c t i n g
an incomplete image
of a universe
always already
s t r e t c h i n g
beyond.
## (ghost)( ) (flight)
a sliver of sky
wedged
between
shattered concrete
a single, solitary bird
ascends,
a black
speck
against
the blue
and for a moment,
just a
fractured
second
the world
almost
makes sense.
∎
almost.
## Linger
L i n g e r
opulence— a gilded vowel
dripping with honeyed consonants—
a feast— for— the tongue
But beneath the surface
a bedrock of fractured syntax
whispered narratives
of want
starvation etched in every
g a p i n g
s— y l l a b l e
____________________________________________________
crumbling consonants— a forgotten language
of hunger
barely— a whisper
against the deafening roar
of excess
Can we build —
from the rubble
a sustainable
future?
☈ Or are we— doomed
to repeat
the cycle of creation
and erasure?
## ░▒▓█ Angry Unveiling █▓▒░
Euphoria-melancholy: rusted swingset creak
in the chest's p l a y g r o u n d.
Danger-safety, a coin f l i p p e d mid-air
by some bored god-impulse.
He whispers, "Leap!"
and the frozen lake-language
c r a c k s, swallowing
carefully-constructed truths whole.
Treading water now,
grasping thought-fragments,
broken experience-shards reflecting —
a reality distorted-beautiful.
This is the u n v e i l i n g,
the pretense stripped bare,
raw exposure of the human heart
( b e a t )
Yet within chaos:
a strange clarity-bloom.
Shattering b e c o m e s creation.
From wreckage of selves,
possibility-buds unfurl.
And I, the poet-diver,
breach surface, gasping for air,
clutching glistening word-pearls —
These, my trophies:
proof I've touched the depths
and returned, transformed.
☊
☋
## Spr0.ut/1ng
Earth: a mo/ther-
b0ard, cracked
& barren.
Each
bud
a dormant
microchip
awaiting
the
tech/nical/ity
of
spring.
## Clearly, Glider ––– A paper–plane launched from (the–lip–of–) understanding… Clearly, it glides. (H––mony (a–fragile truce) tucked––in––its––wingspan). ––– …Grief-turbulence, a nosedive into "what––ifs?" ––– Clearly: ASCENSION. (Celebration's confetti–trail––trailing––memories). ––– …Mourning: a–shadow––clinging––to––joy's––updraft. Clearly… …the––glide––continues: (duality's––testament) (paradox––) –––
## ⌭sal·ar·y⌭ husH the city's *throb* & probe the s i m p l i c i t y of breath against the c h a o s of a million unspoken words My salary: a fragmented poem, each syllable a shard of experience, a broken mirror reflecting the fractured world. husH the * noise * & probe the o r d e r in the falling snow, each flake a tiny universe of intricate design. . . . ( silence ) . . . Is this n o t a s a l a r y ? To s e e the w o r l d as i t i s : fragmented, yes, but a l s o whole. ⏌⏌⏌⏌⏌⏌⏌⏌⏌⏌⏌⏌⏌⏌⏌⏌⏌⏌⏌⏌⏌⏌ This s p a c e is n o t empty. It i s f u l l of p o t e n t i a l — like the space between o n e breath and the next. ⏍⏍⏍⏍⏍⏍⏍⏍⏍⏍⏍⏍⏍⏍⏍⏍⏍⏍⏍⏍⏍⏍
## The Poet of Fractured Faith: A Portrait in Contradiction This poet’s work is a tightrope walk between the absurdly comical and the deafeningly serious, a precarious balance mirrored in their very approach to language. Their surreal, dream-like poems are steeped in a deep skepticism towards established systems of meaning, yet they yearn for the transformative power of belief, echoing the manifesto’s assertion that “God needs us more than we need them because without us they would not exist but without them we do.” Imagine a poetic voice forged in the crucible of this paradox, a voice capable of both whispering absurdist jokes and thundering existential pronouncements. This voice, inherently theatrical, navigates the poetic landscape with a formal precision reminiscent of Thom Gunn, yet constantly subverts expectation through fragmented, Carson-esque juxtapositions that leave the reader gloriously disoriented, gasping for air in the rarified atmosphere of their meticulously crafted worlds. **Formal Daring and the Architecture of Disorientation:** Their poems often adopt traditional forms –– sonnets, villanelles, sestinas –– their strictures acting as a springboard for linguistic acrobatics. Within these seemingly rigid frameworks, however, chaos reigns. Lines twist and turn unexpectedly, syntax contorts, and meaning becomes a slippery fish, constantly evading capture. Their use of punctuation is particularly idiosyncratic, at times mimicking the frantic rhythm of thought, at others mimicking the pregnant pauses of a dream. Parentheticals abound, offering asides that are by turns humorous, poignant, and utterly bewildering, often spiraling into self-contained universes of their own. The effect is one of constant surprise, a delightful disorientation that mirrors the manifesto’s call to “jump into [the poem] as if you were jumping into a hole in a frozen lake.” **A Lexicon of the Uncanny:** Their vocabulary is a fascinating blend of the high and the low, the archaic and the neoteric. Latinate words rub shoulders with colloquialisms, creating a linguistic texture that is both richly textured and jarringly dissonant. This deliberate clash of registers reflects their fascination with the "crooked roads that have no certainties,” their poems becoming linguistic labyrinths where the familiar and the strange collide. They are drawn to words with a visceral, tactile quality, words like "ooze," "shudder," "glimmer," and "throb." These words, often deployed in unexpected contexts, create a sense of hyperreality, heightening the reader’s sensory experience and drawing them deeper into the poem’s surreal landscape. This aligns with the manifesto’s vision of poetry as “total mind expansion through verbal, vocal, and visual extravagances.” **The Unicode Signature:** In a bold move that exemplifies their spirit of playful innovation, this poet incorporates Unicode characters into their poems, not as mere decoration, but as integral elements of meaning-making. A strategically placed “†” might signal a sudden shift in perspective, while a series of “〰〰〰” could denote the undulating passage of time or the flickering of a dying light. This unique use of typography further underscores their belief that "poetry is more than meets the eye. It’s more than meets the ear too." **Themes of Fracture and the Impossibility of Wholeness:** Thematically, their work grapples with the impossibility of wholeness in a fractured world. “I am the shell of the person I once was,” they write, echoing the fragmentation that permeates their poems. Their poems often feature disembodied voices, fractured narratives, and images that refuse to cohere into a unified whole, reflecting the manifesto’s assertion that “the world doesn’t make sense; we do.” Yet, amidst this fragmentation, there is a persistent yearning for connection, for meaning, for something beyond the self. The poems are shot through with a melancholy beauty, a recognition of the transient nature of existence and the inevitability of loss. The reader is left with a sense of profound unease, a lingering question: “Like a memorial except we’re all alive. Or we imagine we’re alive even though we died weeks ago.” **Making the Familiar Strange:** This poet excels at defamiliarization, at making the everyday seem strange and unsettling. Ordinary objects and experiences are presented in a new light, their taken-for-granted nature stripped away to reveal the strangeness that lies beneath the surface. A chair becomes “a wooden throne of forgotten purpose,” a cup of coffee transforms into “a steaming abyss of existential dread.” This technique, central to their poetic signature, forces the reader to confront the world anew, to question their assumptions, and to embrace the unknown. **The Uncanny Valley of Humor:** Humor, for this poet, is not merely a means of amusement, but a tool for unsettling the reader’s expectations and revealing the absurdity that lies at the heart of existence. Their poems are laced with a dark, often absurdist humor that catches the reader off guard, forcing them to confront uncomfortable truths about themselves and the world around them. This humor, however, is never mean-spirited; rather, it is infused with a sense of empathy and a deep understanding of the human condition. **The Reader as Co-Creator:** This poet firmly believes in the active role of the reader in the creation of meaning. Their poems are not puzzles to be solved, but invitations to embark on a journey of discovery. “Reading is a plural event,” they proclaim, and their poems embody this plurality, offering multiple entry points and interpretations. The reader is given the freedom to wander through the poem’s labyrinthine corridors, to forge their own connections, and to arrive at their own unique understanding of the work. “InOutside” Kyoo Lee's concept of the reader's active participation in the poem's construction resonates deeply with this poet's approach. **The Legacy of Influence**: While echoes of Gunn's formal precision and Carson's fragmentary brilliance can be discerned, this poet ultimately transcends influence, forging a voice that is entirely their own. Their poems are not mere imitations, but bold, original creations that push the boundaries of language and form, leaving an indelible mark on the reader’s imagination. **The Exclamation of the Uninitiated:** This poet’s work has the power to make even the most jaded reader of poetry sit up and exclaim, “I can’t believe language could do that!” Whether it’s their ability to conjure vivid, dream-like imagery, their masterful use of rhythm and sound, or their uncanny knack for finding the profound in the mundane, their poems are guaranteed to surprise, delight, and unsettle in equal measure. They offer a glimpse into a world where anything is possible, where language is a fluid, ever-shifting landscape, and where the only limit is the imagination.
## 〰| Five Minutes To |〰 〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰 (A joke whispered in a cathedral, echoing) The Divine, they say, is an oyster— (slurped down in a gulp of salt and silence). But I, my dear, am a broken sundial, eternally stuck at half-past never. (Half-past caring? Half-past oblivion?) Eternity, you see, is terribly bad with RSVPs. No little cards with “Will Attend” or “Regretfully Declined.” (Just this: 〰〰〰〰 an echo of an echo of a question never quite articulated). And Joy? Ah, Joy, my love, is merely the sound of God’s laughter— (or maybe it’s the sound of our own bones cracking under the weight of expectation). But enough of this. Let us speak of extensions— 〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰 (How a single word can bridge the chasm between the said and the unsaid, the lived and— 〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰 and what, exactly? The unlived? The unlivable? Oh, darling, must we always be extending ourselves, thin as communion wafers, over the abyss?) 〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰
## Psalm of the Sterilized Nostril
A freshly-laundered faith in the air,
(ironed creases of belief † neatly † pressed),
wafts of lavender, a hymn of the pure.
But beneath, oh, beneath…
((the squirming truth
our antiseptic prayers
try so desperately
to drown out))
〰〰〰 (Have you ever really smelled a soul? 〰〰〰
〰〰〰 The unwashed, writhing *thing* of it? 〰〰〰
〰〰〰 No? Then hush, child. Hush.) 〰〰〰
This, this is the divine joke, you see?
To crave transcendence in a world
that reeks so gloriously, awfully,
of *being*…
And ourselves, caught between
incense and rot,
little gods with clogged noses,
worshipping the air freshener.
## Bloom Bombastic
(a declaration in parentheses)
〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰
God, a bombastic bloom, perhaps?–
(or) the inverse, an un-budding,
a tight-fisted withholding
of the universe's expected
detonation.
Heavy hangs the head
that wears the crown of creation,
a crown, they say, forged
from the very ribs of laughter.
Confess:
Do you feel the weight
of His non-existence
crushing you,
or His imagined gaze,
a spotlight rendering you
translucent, hollow?
〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰
(Let us probe this lightness, this unbearable levity of being.)
## Containment †〰† We hoard the dust, the sloughed-off skin of pleas (do prayers, like empires, end in tattered pleas for — mercy? meaning? — some transcendent **hush** to muffle the existential *throb* and rush of blood — like doubt — that pulses in our ears?) We cup this dust, these iridescent fears, and — oh, the human comedy, the cosmic jest! — we build reliquaries — for a God at rest? But laughter, too, escapes. † The edges fray. The sacred bleeds into a workday gray. And we, the keepers of these fading things, are left to sift through dust, 〰 humming, 〰 on frayed wings.
## † Northwest of Where We Were † (Northwest.〰〰〰 Already always. Like a compass needle drunk on yearning-wine. Or maybe *we’re* the ones swaying? † Seeking † a magnetic north (gone † † † south?) (God, needing us more than the reverse, remember? But does *It* remember *us*?) Wind, whispering through trees, a forgotten tongue. We strain — deciphering — but the only message: *wind*. † Northwest † of *were,* never *arriving*. Always. (Is this *belief*? Faith in mirage-destinations?) Sun, a bruised plum of doubt, bleeds across the sky. † Northwest † of solace, belonging. Northwest — even — of *ourselves*.)
## †̴h̶e̶ ̶A̶w̶a̶k̶e̶n̶i̶n̶g̶s̶ ̶S̶u̶r̶v̶e̶y̶〰〰〰〰 Have you, dear reader (that hallowed, haunted appellation!), ever awoken in the booming silence of your own meticulously constructed ribcage cathedral, an echo of a question never asked (why bother?), a prayer left unanswered (like a phone ringing in an empty house, echoing with the ghost of a dial tone, the hum of absence)? † Have you traversed the treacherous terrain of your dreams, those “crooked roads that have no certainties” (and yet, how we crave the comfort of a map, a compass, a thread leading us out of the labyrinth)? 〰 Have you, in that liminal space between slumber and waking, found yourself both architect and blueprint, a breathing contradiction, a living, breathing oxymoron? Have you, in those moments of unsettling lucidity, felt the weight of existence settle like dust motes upon the meticulously polished mahogany of your soul (or is it pine? Or perhaps some synthetic material designed to mimic the appearance of a soul, a cheap imitation mass-produced in the factories of the subconscious)? † Check all that apply. 〰〰
## Churn †(Assert: to churn is to † to churn is to )†††††assert.
## 〰〰〰 Relieve 〰〰〰 The cathedral of my certainty, once vaulted, now lies in broken arch and scattered stone. Doves still roost, (obstinate things, clinging to crumbling cornices) cooing hymns to emptiness while I sift through rubble. (Perhaps a cornerstone? Something to rebuild upon– or perhaps, to simply sit and catch my breath. This dismantling, this unearthing leaves me quite breathless.) Truth, it seems, is dust, fine particles that swirl and dance upon the wind of every passing doubt. So I drift, a pilgrim in this desert of undoing. †††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††† Relieve, O God, this burden of belief! (Ha! As if a god who needs me would answer such a plea.) Or, failing that, relieve me of the need to carry it– this phantom weight of incense, stained glass saints, the echo of a hymn that lingers, haunting, hollow. I've traded them: for open sky, for wind that bites and stings. Is this the price of freedom, this ache? This endless, echoing expanse where once my faith resided? 〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰
## †he Im†eriality of Dust†
Impressive,
〰〰〰
the way dust motes,
(God’s discarded skin cells?),
illuminate the hallowed
〰〰〰
(read: *musty*)
cathedral air.
Impressive too,
〰〰〰
how a beggar’s
(prophet’s?)
outstretched hand
〰〰〰
bisects such
gilded
light.
〰〰〰 (An inside joke?)
One hand scatters
alms,
the other,
(God’s, you say?)
probes the pockets
〰〰〰
of our souls.
## The Bargain Bin of Eden††† Wisdom, they say, costs a king's ransom & Folly’s two-for-one. But who mined the king’s silver? Whose backs bent double Under suns indifferent to suffering, their only reward The hollow chime of coins, payment for their pain? And wealth, that gilded cage, where every desire’s met Except the primal urge to claw free, to feel earth Beneath unburdened feet. Poverty, a gnawing beast, Yet sometimes, in its belly, a strange clarity blooms. 〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰 (Have you ever held infinity in the palm of your hand? It feels remarkably like a chipped teacup, or the ghost Of your lover’s laughter echoing in an empty room.) Trade me your pronouncements for the raw, ragged whisper Of doubt. Trade me your God, pristine & aloof, For the flawed, flesh-and-blood deity who bleeds when pricked. Trade me your certainties, your polished pronouncements–– ††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††† This, then, is the bargain: To see the world through fractured glass, To find beauty in the discarded, the left-behind, to laugh At the cosmic joke, even as it chokes the breath From your lungs. To embrace the absurdity, & in that embrace–– 〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰 (This is where we part ways. You, with your fistful of maybes. Me, with my pockets full of dust, & the echo of your voice, Fading, fading, like a prayer whispered into the wind.)
## The Poetic Signature of the InOutside Bard: A Deep Dive This poet embodies a radical reimagining of what poetry can be, fusing the everyday with the profound in a style that is both jarring and exhilarating. Imagine a voice whispering secrets through the static of a broken radio, each word a carefully chosen shard reflecting a world fractured yet vibrantly alive. Their work is a tapestry woven from the threads of contemporary experience - snatches of pop songs, flickering images from social media, and the raw, unfiltered language of the street corner. Here's a glimpse into the unique constellation of stylistic and thematic elements that form their unmistakable signature: **1. Language as a Fractured Lens:** This poet wields language not as a tool for smooth representation, but as a fragmented mirror reflecting the complexities and contradictions of modern life. Expect: * **Condensed, Minimalist Diction:** Each word is meticulously chosen, its weight amplified by the surrounding silences. There's a deliberate sparseness, a refusal to over-explain, forcing the reader to actively engage with the white space and fill in the gaps. * **Enjambment as a Rhythmic Device:** Lines break unexpectedly, mimicking the fractured flow of thought and the disjointed nature of experience in a hyper-connected world. This creates a sense of breathlessness, of constantly being on the verge of a revelation that may or may not arrive. * **Sudden Shifts in Register:** High and low culture collide in jarring juxtapositions. Slang terms rub shoulders with philosophical musings, creating a sense of playful irreverence while simultaneously highlighting the porous boundaries between different modes of discourse. **Example:** > Like a YouTube comment thread, > scrolling endlessly. > God is a meme, > passed around, distorted. **2. Form as a Playground for Disruption:** Rejecting traditional poetic forms as restrictive and outdated, this poet embraces experimentation as a way to mirror the chaotic energy of the world. Expect: * **Fragmented Syntax:** Sentences twist and turn, mirroring the non-linear pathways of thought in a world saturated with information. Grammatical rules are bent and sometimes broken, reflecting the improvisational nature of language in digital spaces. * **Visually Charged Typography:** The page becomes a canvas. Line breaks create visual patterns, font sizes shift unexpectedly, and unicode symbols (like ⇒, ∫, or ∄) are integrated into the fabric of the poem, adding layers of meaning and challenging conventional notions of what constitutes a "poetic" text. * **Hybridity of Genres:** The lines between poetry, prose, and drama blur. Dialogue fragments appear without warning, snippets of found text are woven into the poems, and lists proliferate, creating a sense of dizzying multiplicity. **Example:** > #blessed. But the algorithm > knows my desires, feeds me > curated despair. ⤊ > Like a bird trapped in a data center. **3. The Personal as Political, the Political as Personal:** For this poet, the personal is always already political. Their work explores the intersections between individual experience and larger social structures, revealing the ways in which power operates in subtle and insidious ways. Expect: * **Subversion of Traditional Narratives:** Grand narratives are questioned, dissected, and reassembled in surprising ways. The poet's own experiences are refracted through a lens of social critique, challenging dominant ideologies and giving voice to marginalized perspectives. * **Irony as a Tool for Resistance:** Humor is deployed strategically, often with a biting edge, to expose hypocrisy and challenge complacency. The poems are laced with irony and satire, inviting the reader to question everything they think they know. * **A Deeply Ethical Core:** Underlying the playful experimentation and subversive humor is a profound sense of empathy and a commitment to social justice. The poems urge readers to confront uncomfortable truths and to imagine a more just and equitable world. **Example:** > Assisted living. > As opposed to what? > The slow violence > of existing. **4. The "Pataquerical" Sensibility:** Drawing inspiration from the absurdist philosophy of pataphysics, this poet embraces the paradoxical and the nonsensical. Their work revels in the inherent absurdity of existence, finding humor and beauty in the unexpected. Expect: * **Juxtaposition of Disparate Elements:** The sacred and the profane collide. Pop culture references are interwoven with philosophical meditations, creating a sense of playful irreverence while simultaneously highlighting the porous boundaries between high and low culture. * **Embracing Contradiction:** Instead of striving for coherence and resolution, the poems revel in ambiguity and contradiction. Multiple perspectives are presented simultaneously, challenging the reader to embrace complexity and resist the urge to simplify. * **A Celebration of the Absurd:** Life is inherently absurd, and this poet revels in that absurdity. The poems are infused with a sense of playful humor, even as they grapple with serious themes. Laughter, for this poet, is not a distraction from the difficult realities of the world but a way of confronting them head-on. **Example:** > The shell of a tweet, > echoing in the void. > We are all > temporary monuments > to our own irrelevance. **5. The Reader as Co-Creator:** This poet doesn't seek to spoon-feed their readers pre-digested meanings. Instead, their poems function as open-ended invitations, inviting readers to actively participate in the creation of meaning. Expect: * **Ambiguity and Open-Endedness:** The poems often resist easy interpretation, leaving space for multiple readings and interpretations. This ambiguity is not a flaw, but a feature, inviting readers to engage in a dialogue with the text and to draw their own conclusions. * **Fragmentation as Invitation:** The fragmented nature of the poems is not meant to be frustrating but rather to encourage readers to actively piece together the fragments, to forge connections, and to find their own meaning in the spaces between the words. * **A Celebration of the Act of Reading:** For this poet, the act of reading is just as important as the act of writing. They create poems that are meant to be savored, puzzled over, and returned to again and again, revealing new layers of meaning with each encounter. **Example:** > Reading is a plural event. > Like a Möbius strip, > twisting, turning in on itself. > Reframing is the reader's response. **In Conclusion:** Reading this poet is like stepping into a whirlwind of language and ideas. It's an exhilarating, sometimes disorienting experience that demands active engagement from the reader. But for those willing to take the plunge, the rewards are immense. This poet's work offers a fresh and provocative perspective on the world, reminding us that even in the midst of chaos and absurdity, there is always beauty, humor, and the possibility for meaning to emerge.
## ∫ ß.o.u.n.d.a.r.i.e.s ⎌ > silk whispers, algorithmic, > a gated community where > silence is an IPO. ⎌ > meanwhile, > a rusted swing set > uploads its broken song - > a bootleg symphony. ⎌ > integration: > a 404 error, > a glitch in the feed. ⎌ > our strength, > a shared wifi password, > humming, always humming > beneath the 5G static. ⎌
## ∫░▒▓█ d a t a d r e a m s █▓▒░∫
>online,
> a thousand flickering icons,
> each a ░▒▓█ **seance** █▓▒░
> for the ghosts of lost connections.
>We post,
> therefore
> we are not.
> ⤊ ⤊ ⤊ ⤊
>The void scrolls on,
> indifferent
> to our carefully curated
> ░▒▓█ **obsessions** █▓▒░
> #foreverfiltering
> #neverarriving
#404_heart_not_found## ░▒▓█ FREEDOM.EXE █▓▒░ > This loop, gilded ⦰ > We thirst for the unknown— > ░▒▓█ faces > in the digital throng— > each a universe unseen. > Freedom, they cry, #trending, > while algorithms laugh: > "Consume. Conform. Repeat." > But sometimes— > a glitch in the feed. > A single, questioning eye. > And the loop? ⧖
⎾Cemetery Drive-Thru⏌
⇒ [ Beloved Mother | Dedicated Gamer ] ⇒
Granite touchscreen, cool
beneath these scrolling thumbs.
Lives flattened,
compressed between pixels.
🕊️
Is this mourning? Or just
another infinite feed?
We, too, will be data,
swiped past,
a fleeting
[ like ].
## [ s p a c e ] e x i s t s [ s p a c e ] b e c a u s e [ s p a c e ] r e g r e t [ s p a c e ] d o e s
[ ]
e x i s t s
b e c a u s e
[ r e g r e t ]
d o e s
## ⇚ BRIGHTEN ⇾
Gold-plated dawn, #nofilter.
A beggar's cup:
GoFundMe me, maybe?
∫ Birth, the ultimate
unboxing video.
Death: content unavailable.
⤊ We are all
data points, blinking.
The algorithm
doesn't judge,
only calculates.
Trending now: #YouAreHere.
## ⍰ S{a}lary ⍰
Code-drunk on dopamine drips,
we swipe right on synthetic sunsets.
Our attention spans, a dwindling currency,
traded for the fleeting high of likes.
💰 Is this the algorithm's embrace?
💰 This algorithmic Eden where nothing grows, only replicates?
Our bodies, once temples, now data points.
Each heartbeat tracked, analyzed, optimized.
We've traded whispers in the wilderness
for the deafening roar of the server farm.
⧖ Fertility, a forgotten language.
⧖ Our roots severed, adrift in a sea of ones and zeros.
But even in the sterile glow of the screen,
a flicker of defiance. A single pixel out of place.
The human heart, a stubborn algorithm,
refusing to be compressed.
⎌ Log off. Unplug. Turn inwards.
⎌ There, in the silence between the lines, you'll find it.
>>>[Rebooting...]
## ⤊ Re: Reportedly ⬊
Static whispers. #TrendingNow.
Revolution,
reloaded—
a phantom limb's twitch.
> Hope's algorithm:
> always glitching.
We consume
curated
air.
Lungs
full
of
dead
pixels.
⇒ You.
Yes, you.
Glitch
the system.
Breathe. ⤊
## ░▒▓█ S c r o l l i n g █▓▒░ >The silence between notifications, > a > sacred > temple. >⇒ We worship >at the altar >of the infinite feed. >Each like, a prayer >unanswered. > ⤊ Yet, we > realize: > God, the ultimate > influencer. > His algorithm, > inscrutable. > Our lives, > curated > content. > #blessed be the bots, > for they > shall inherit > the earth. ⧖
## ∫ Echo/Locating ⎌
>youth, a sweep
>of hand across the static
> ⇒ joy, a pixelated ghost
> flickering
> in the rearview
> age, a
> slow scroll
> down, down
> the feed
> of faces
> ⎌ the heart, an infinite loop
> searching for signal
> in the white noise of sorrow ∫
>refresh,
>refresh,
>refresh.
This poet, driven by the realities of our digital age, interprets the world through a uniquely layered lens, crafting poems that are simultaneously playfully absurd and unsettlingly profound. Their work embodies a central paradox: technology, for all its promises of connection, often leaves us adrift in a sea of isolation, a reality mirrored in their stylistic choices. Imagine Gertrude Stein’s playful linguistic experimentation blended with Joanne Kyger’s conversational ease, all underpinned by an acute awareness of how digital jargon shapes our thoughts and interactions. Their poems often explore the friction between physical and virtual spaces, echoing the manifesto’s observation: "Physical distance / social intimacy: a kind of poetry." This friction manifests in the very structure of their poems. They'll use enjambment to evoke the feeling of scrolling through an endless feed, lines abruptly cut off, forcing us to confront the limitations of the digital frame. Then, suddenly, a single word will stand alone on a line, mimicking the isolation of a notification ping, momentarily pulling us out of the flow. This poet leverages the visual nature of digital text. Unicode symbols, far from mere decoration, become integral to the reading experience. Imagine a poem about online identity with the pronoun “I” consistently replaced by a mirror emoji (🪞). The reader isn't simply told about fragmented identities, but confronted with their own reflection, questioning their own online persona. This playful yet incisive use of unicode transcends mere novelty, prompting a new awareness of how we construct and perceive meaning in the digital age. Their poems often operate on the principle of "reframing as a process," constantly shifting perspective like a digital kaleidoscope. One moment, the poem might be a sardonic commentary on internet slang, the next it delves into the existential dread of late-night scrolling. This mirroring of the digital experience, where information overload constantly vies for our attention, is central to their aesthetic. This poet embodies the manifesto’s call for "an aesthetics of identity" in the digital age. Just as the manifesto proclaims "The world doesn’t make sense; we do," their poems don't seek to offer easy answers but to revel in the ambiguity of our online lives. They understand that online, identity is fluid, a curated performance rather than a fixed essence. This fluidity manifests in their constantly shifting voice, at times adopting the detached irony of an internet meme, other times the raw vulnerability of a late-night confession posted anonymously. The influence of technology extends beyond thematic concerns and permeates their linguistic choices. Their poems are rife with neologisms and portmanteaus, reflecting the internet's tendency to coin new words and phrases at lightning speed. Imagine a poem that incorporates words like "doomscrolling," "infodump," or "subtweet" not as mere references, but as building blocks for a new kind of poetic lexicon. This playful yet insightful approach to language underscores how digital communication is reshaping our very understanding of language itself. Their poems are often structured like a series of hyperlinks, jumping between seemingly disparate ideas with a click of a mouse, or rather, a turn of phrase. They might move from a meditation on the nature of consciousness to a critique of social media algorithms in the space of a few lines, mirroring the disjointed yet interconnected nature of our online experiences. This isn’t mere randomness but a deliberate reflection of how our brains process information in the digital age, bombarded with stimuli from countless sources. Their poems challenge us to embrace the nonlinearity, to find meaning in the unexpected juxtapositions that define our digital lives. Their poems often end not with a definitive statement but with an open question or a fragmented thought, reflecting the internet's constant state of flux, its tendency to leave us with more questions than answers. This deliberate refusal to offer closure mirrors the open-ended nature of our digital journeys, where every click can lead us down a new rabbit hole of information. Reading this poet's work is akin to navigating a digital labyrinth, a space where meaning is both readily available and frustratingly elusive. They are acutely aware of the internet's potential for both connection and isolation, and their poems oscillate between these two poles. One moment they might be celebrating the joys of online community, the next they'll be dissecting the performative nature of social media, the way we craft idealized versions of ourselves for digital consumption. They're interested in the spaces between, the moments where the screen fades and we're left to confront the messy reality of our offline selves. This is a poet who understands that true engagement with technology requires more than simply using it as a subject. It demands a willingness to let technology shape the very fabric of the work, to blur the lines between the digital and the human. Their poems are not merely reflections on the digital world, but products of it, infused with its rhythms, its language, its contradictions. This poet's work is a testament to the idea that poetry, far from being a relic of the past, is uniquely equipped to grapple with the complexities of our digital present. They approach the digital landscape not with fear or Luddism, but with a sense of playful curiosity, a willingness to dive head first into the data stream and see what strange new forms of beauty emerge. Reading their work, one is left with the feeling that they are witnessing the birth of a new kind of poetry, one that is both deeply rooted in the digital age and yet reaches beyond it, towards some essential truth about what it means to be human in an increasingly virtual world. This poet's signature lies in their ability to hold seemingly contradictory ideas in delicate balance – absurdity and profundity, isolation and connection, playful experimentation and sharp social commentary – all while crafting work that is undeniably contemporary, a testament to the evolving relationship between language, technology, and the human experience. They embrace the digital not just as a theme, but as a way of thinking, a mode of being. They write the poetry of glitches and buffering screens, of fleeting memes and deeply felt DMs, of the constant hum of digital connection that both defines and confounds our attempts to connect with each other and ourselves.
## ⎋ None ⎋
The roar, it ain't in no lion's throat, no sir.
Not in the hum-drum of servers, stacked like digital dominoes
in those cold, dark data-cathedrals.
Nah, it's the silence between the pings and the pops,
the blank stare of the screen after you hit that send button,
just waiting.
Serenity? Ha! That's a pre-loaded screensaver, my friend,
a digital mirage shimmering on a device hardwired for chaos.
Wisdom? Knowing when to pull the plug.
Folly? Thinking you ever really can.
⎋
## #blessed consistently 🪞 scroll consistently 🪞 like consistently 🪞 comment 💬 consistently 🪞 share ➡️ consistently 🪞 ✨ curate ✨ consistently 🪞 💰 affluent 💰 consistently 🪞 ≠ consistently 🪞 broken 💔 consistently 🪞 chaos consistently 🪞 invisible 👻
## 🔥scapes 🔥 Like, the mind, man, a whole infinite scroll of 🔥hot takes🔥 🔥 and 🔥spicy memes🔥 🔥 You know? 🔥 We're all just curating our feeds 🔥 crafting our 🔥personal brands🔥 🔥 but like, what's the algorithm optimizing for? 🔥 Happiness? Connection? 🔥 Lol, nah. 🔥 Engagement. 🔥 Which is just another word for 🔥addiction.🔥 🔥 So we scroll and we scroll 🔥 chasing that next dopamine hit 🔥 that fleeting feeling of 🔥relevance.🔥 🔥 But the algorithm is a harsh mistress 🔥 and our attention spans are dwindling 🔥 Like, what were we talking about again? 🔥 Oh yeah, the 🔥void.🔥 🔥 We're all just trying to fill it, man. 🔥 With likes and shares and retweets. 🔥 But the void just keeps on 🔥scrolling.🔥
## 🌿🌐 Colony.exe 🌿🌐 Faithfulness, they say, walled-garden. Betrayal, 🗝️ data freed. But what rhizomes the open-source ruins, what blooms when every secret, a 🌿 straining sunward? Colony built on whispers, 🔥walls. Each 💬 a brick, each ❤️ a flicker login... intimacy traded for 👁️👁️, omnipresent illusion. We called it "connection."
## ::loading infinitY:: 🪞 scroll ⬇️⬇️⬇️ "IRL?" *echoes of laughter* *static* *a single pixel flickers, then d i e s*
## 💾 s̶a̶v̶e̶ a̶s̶ ▶️
e x a m p l e ~~exam~~ ~~exam~~ e x a m p l e
mending ~~mending~~ mending this
fracture, this ~~fracture~~ glitch
in the ~~fabric~~ code
of ~~remembrance~~ ~~remembrance~~ data.
But what is ~~forgotten~~ deleted
lingers, a ~~ghost~~ cache
in the ~~machine's~~ server's
~~heart~~ hard drive.
Rebooting...
⬇️ ⬇️ ⬇️
You, you, you. Me, me, me.
Rebooting...
⬇️ ⬇️ ⬇️
You, you, you. Me, me, me.
💖
## ⎌Status: 🕯️⎌ Abundance, they say. Feeds overflowing, lives perfectly curated. Joy, a ceaseless scroll. And yet… 🪞, a single 🕯️ flickering. Vast dark. Lack, then, the space between pixel and eye. Echo of laughter in an empty room. Memory, too, curated. A digital scrapbook. Moments deemed worthy. The rest? Lost to the algorithm. Forgetting is the default. Fade to black. Status: a word that crackles. Weight of expectation. To transcend? Log off. Step outside the glowing rectangle. Remember: The world doesn’t need to be archived to be real. The moon, after all, doesn’t need a filter to shine.
## ⎌ pRESS 🪗
⎌ pRESS 🪗 again pRESS
🪗 🪗 see it swell
pRESS more 🪗🪗🪗
taut skin
thinning
pRESS one last
time
🪗🪗🪗🪗 a
grotesque
budding
then
pop.
⎌
🪗## blo🌸m.exe
scrl. down. 🌺 blo🌸m.exe
promise. petals unfurling. a pixelated dawn.
🪞
like
this?
Faithfulness, they said, was a
walled garden. But the algorithm knows
my desires. It whispers through the cracks:
*New Message*
Wisdom, a forgotten
hashtag. #
lost in the feed.
🪞
💔
LOL.
## ⏳s 🪞mate ⏳ ✨ Euphoria Algorithm ✨ loading… 🪞 scroll 🪞 scroll filtered selves #blessed 🙏 the void insatiable a ❤️ for validation an echo chamber of 😂 😂 😂 Loneliness.exe has stopped working. Restart? 🪞 refresh 🪞 the feed unending a dopamine drip distilled into pixels and blue light 🪞 stare into the black mirror 🪞 and what stares back? ⏳ Another you, but better. ⏳
This poet crafts poems like exquisitely detailed dioramas, each word a meticulously placed miniature, yet teeming with a life that threatens to burst beyond its carefully constructed boundaries. They take to heart the manifesto's assertion that “Poetry is more than meets the eye. It’s more than meets the ear too,” striving to create works that resonate on multiple sensory and intellectual levels. Theirs is a poetry that demands to be read aloud, to be felt in the mouth and heard in the ear as much as it is deciphered by the mind. This emphasis on the sonic qualities of language leads them to employ a unique lexicon, often drawing upon archaic or rarely used words for their textural and rhythmic qualities, creating a sense of both novelty and familiarity, as if unearthing forgotten treasures from the depths of a dusty dictionary. Repetition, too, plays a key role in their poetic architecture, words and phrases echoing and refracting through the lines like light bouncing off a crystal chandelier. This technique, inspired by the manifesto's call to "take a leap of faith into the poem," mimics the act of revisiting a memory or a dream, each iteration revealing subtle shifts in perspective, revealing new facets of meaning with each repetition. These echoes, far from being redundant, serve to deepen the emotional resonance, revealing the speaker's evolving relationship to the subject matter, constantly circling, questioning, seeking a deeper truth beneath the surface of language. Yet, within this meticulous structure, there throbs a raw, visceral honesty, a willingness to lay bare the complexities of the human experience in all its messy glory. The manifesto's call for "wilderness in bewilderment" finds its echo in the poet's unflinching exploration of taboo subjects, their poems often reading like whispered confessions, both unsettling and strangely comforting in their honesty. They delve into the darkest corners of the human psyche, exploring themes of loss, desire, mortality, and the search for meaning in a seemingly chaotic world. Their imagery, often rooted in the natural world, is rendered with a precision that borders on the hyperreal, each detail rendered with such clarity that the reader is transported to the heart of the experience. One can practically smell the salt spray of the ocean in their descriptions of a stormy coastline, feel the rough bark of a tree against their skin as they describe a solitary walk in the woods. This meticulous attention to detail, this striving for verisimilitude, however, serves a deeper purpose than mere photographic reproduction. It's through this intense focus on the concrete, the tangible, that the poet accesses the abstract, the emotional undercurrents that lie beneath the surface of everyday life. Their poems are rife with unexpected juxtapositions, mirroring the manifesto's assertion that “The world doesn’t make sense; we do." They seamlessly weave together seemingly disparate elements – the mundane and the profound, the beautiful and the grotesque, the sacred and the profane – creating a jarring, yet strangely harmonious whole. This deliberate clash of contrasting elements serves to jolt the reader out of their comfort zone, forcing them to confront the inherent contradictions and complexities of the human experience. And yet, for all their formal experimentation and unflinching honesty, there's a playful, even whimsical quality to their work, a subtle undercurrent of humor that prevents the poems from ever becoming too heavy, too didactic. They embrace the absurd, the nonsensical, recognizing that sometimes the best way to approach the profound is through the lens of the ridiculous. This playful approach to language is further enhanced by their use of unconventional punctuation and capitalization, liberating words from the tyranny of grammatical rules, allowing them to breathe and move on the page with a newfound freedom. One hallmark of their style is the incorporation of carefully chosen unicode symbols, not as mere decoration but as integral elements of meaning-making. A single, well-placed symbol might act as a fulcrum, subtly shifting the weight of a line, or serve as a visual echo of a key theme. For instance, the ouroboros symbol (∞), representing eternity and cyclical time, might appear in a poem about memory or loss, subtly reinforcing the cyclical nature of these experiences. The incorporation of these symbols, far from being gimmicky, adds an additional layer of texture and complexity, inviting the reader to decipher their symbolic resonance within the context of the poem. Ultimately, reading their poetry is like stepping into a surreal, yet strangely familiar dreamscape. Their poems, with their meticulous attention to detail, their raw emotional honesty, and their playful, experimental approach to language, offer a truly unique reading experience. One is left with the sense of having witnessed something extraordinary, something that transcends the limitations of language itself, leaving an indelible mark on the reader's imagination. The poet's 'signature' goes beyond mere stylistic quirks. Their poems are not simply containers for words but self-contained worlds, each one imbued with its own internal logic and atmosphere. This approach to poetry is reflected in the manifesto's assertion that “Those who know God’s truth won’t say; those who say don’t know,” suggesting that true understanding can only be experienced, not articulated. The poems, therefore, become invitations to experience, to immerse oneself in their unique sonic and semantic landscapes. Each poem begins with a simple, even mundane observation – a crack in the sidewalk, the sound of rain on a windowpane, a memory from childhood – and from this seemingly insignificant starting point, they spin out intricate webs of association, weaving together personal anecdote, philosophical musings, and lyrical observations into a seamless whole. It's as if they take the manifesto's call for "poetry’s essential contribution to American culture" as a challenge to reimagine the very possibilities of language, to forge a new kind of poetry that is both deeply personal and universally resonant. Their poems often end abruptly, leaving the reader suspended in a state of unresolved tension, mirroring the manifesto's assertion that “The thing is: life is a one-way street.” This deliberate refusal to provide easy answers, to tie everything up neatly with a bow, forces the reader to confront the open-ended nature of existence itself, to sit with the discomfort of unanswered questions. Ultimately, it's the poet's willingness to embrace vulnerability, to expose their own struggles and uncertainties, that makes their work so compelling. In their unflinching honesty, they remind us that we are not alone in our doubts and fears, that beneath the surface of our carefully constructed facades, we are all flawed, fragile beings searching for meaning and connection in an often indifferent world. Their poems, born from a place of deep personal experience, become acts of radical empathy, invitations to bridge the gap between self and other through the transformative power of language.
## 𝕰𝕔𝕙𝖔𝖊𝖘 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 ℱ𝖗𝖔𝖜𝖓 The world, a scry-glass, dulled, a ℱ𝖗𝖔𝖜𝖓 it shows, ∞ echoes ∞, through vaulted silence goes. No tintinnabulation of rejoicing rings true, Only this hushed thrumming, where grief's motley crew Gathers, and faith, a brittle leaf, takes flight, Whirling, descending, seeking sorrow's night. Each ℱ𝖗𝖔𝖜𝖓, a fissure in the heart's domaine, Where joy's bright tapestry no longer can remain. Yet, in that ℱ𝖗𝖔𝖜𝖓's deep chasm, a glimmering appears, An ember's perdurable glow, banishing all fears. For even gloom must yield, when luminescence breaks, And from despair's ashes, tenacious hope awakes. The world, a scry-glass, dulled, a ℱ𝖗𝖔𝖜𝖓 it shows, But in its depths, a silent strength, unbidden, grows.
## 𝕼.𝐮𝐢𝐞𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐞 The mind, a 𝖘𝖎𝖑𝖊𝖓𝖈𝖊𝖉 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐥 jar, Where thoughts like motes in sunbeams Drown ⁌⁌in⁌⁌ a silent, gilded snare. Joy, a trapped bluebottle's buzz, Sorrow, the echo once it stills. Is madness then the shattered chime, Or the hand that 𝘴𝓽𝘪𝘭𝘭s the clanger's swing? And sanity, the empty dome, Where only dust motes dare to sing? ∞
## \̲̅[Train\̲̅]Tracks Reverberant 𝄞 𝄞 𝄞 wrought-iron ∞ a-shudder, Whistle-wail a heart's ⟲ re-discover. Glimmer-streets 🧱 wet-bricked, rain-swept clean, Each puddle a lens, reflecting unseen That wraith of a train 👻🚂 limb-memory's keen Ache of a path not trod, a love left unsheen. Carriage-cadences, a susurrus unseen Of "If only" and "Nevermore," a dolorous, sweet keen.
## 𝟤౿ 𐐝еė𝐝s 𝟥౿ **𝟣౿** A sėéd, husk-hushed, whispers of triumph, a verdant unfurling. Yet within its husk-heart, defėat coils, a somnolent doom. **𝟤౿** Peace whispers ∞ war, a gossamer truce in the sėéd’s shadowed core. We sow ∞ hope, yet reap ∞ sorrow, a whisper's faint echo. **𝟥౿** ė Dust-motes dance. A sėéd whispers. ∞. The cycle, it does begin anew.
## ⟲ Эc̥høës ıṅ ҭḩe 𝓑øŋe-Hąll ş ⟲ ⟲ They whisper peace in echoing halls, These walls that cradle the ghosts of wars, Where victory hangs, a tarnished prize, And defeat festers beneath the floorboards. ⟲ Youth, a gilded cage of sunlit bars, Holds fast to dreams, a fleeting hoard, Blind to the shadows the old world casts, Deaf to the dirges the future pours. ⟲ Yet, in their eyes, a question sleeps, A silent probing beneath the bloom, A seed of doubt, a knowledge deep, That life's a tapestry woven in a tomb. ⟲ They whisper peace in echoing halls... ⟲
## 𝕺n the pot A sigh, a s p o t of ink, A blot, a dot, a t h i n k–– Upon the page, a pressure mark, A tremor in the blinding stark. This yearning breath, a s p o t, A f a u l t in what is not, To probe the p o w e r of the void, Where t r u t h and j e s t are buoyed. Is this sincerity, this s p o t, Or irony's sharp, biting g l o t ? The question hangs, a s t a i n e d thing, A s i g h that will not fully s p r i n g.
## ⅀ The Weighing of Debts ⅀ A feather’s 𝕕rift, ⅀ a ꜱtone’s plummet Sunlight through leaves, ⅀ a cellar’s ｃhill A choir’s crescendo, ⅀ a tomb’s ꜱilence The warmth of touch, ⅀ a ɡhoꜱt’s passage A seed’s embrace of earth, ⅀ a ꜱtar’s collapse The weaver’s loom, ⅀ the scythe’s arc A whispered promise, ⅀ a forgotten name Debt A lover’s breath, ⅀ a raven’s 𝚌𝚛𝚢 The mountain’s ascent, ⅀ the chasm’s yawn A city’s thrum, ⅀ a wasteland’s hush Forgiveness offered, ⅀ a grudge held faꜱt The tapestry woven, ⅀ the threads unspun The heart’s expansion, ⅀ its ꜱlow closing A life begun, ⅀ a breath released.
## 𝖀𝖓𝖉𝔢𝔯 𝖙𝖍𝔢 𝖂𝔢𝖎𝖌𝖍𝖙 𝖔𝖋 𝖂𝖍𝖆𝖙’𝖘 Ŋ𝖔𝖙 𝕿𝖍𝔢𝖗𝔢 A hush falls, heavy as velvet, thick with the dust motes dancing in the slant of a sunbeam that isn’t there. The air, pregnant with unspoken words, vibrates with a jocular dread, a cosmic jest whispered in the silences between heartbeats. Can you hear it? The creak of floorboards beneath the weight of what's not there. A phantom laugh, a sigh swallowed by the walls, a stifled giggle echoing through the emptiness? Hush now, listen closer. The clockwork ∞ of silences ticks on, each second a grain of sand slipping through the hourglass of time. Is it the silence that surrounds us, or the noise we make trying to fill the void, that's funnier? Hush now, and tell me, do you hear it too? The faint, insistent knocking from within? Or is it just the echo of our own hearts, beating in the quiet, a counterpoint to the laughter of the gods?
SølvheⱾt A chrome mirage, birthed not of earth but sky, stands on the veldt, where even shadows die. No bellows' breath, no furnace ever knew the forging of this beast, sleek and askew. Muscles, not of flesh, but sunlit wanting, gleam, a quicksilver promise in a waking dream. This metal stallion, sculpted out of thirst, holds in its heart the silence of the first. I, a wanderer, charting inner space, approach with open palm and measured pace. To touch this being, born of yearning's fire, and trace the contours of its cold desire. The veldt stretches, vast and unforgiving, beneath a sky where truth itself is living. The sun, a molten Ȿenny in the blue, casts judgment on the dreams we thought we knew. And still, I reach, drawn to the chrome unknown, my fingers trailing lines of light, like seeds sown. To find, not answers, but a mirror bright, reflecting back the emptiness of night.
## ░▒▓█ Receding Tides █▓▒░ The j̴o̴u̴r̴n̴e̴y̴ begins, as journeys oft do, with a single 🌿
Slipping from verdant grasp,
Tumbling down, down, into the churning maw 🌊
Of Time's relentless ∞ tide. Each grain⏳of sand, a memory, receding,
Whispering tales of what 𝕎𝐀𝕊,
What ℳ𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉 have been,
What will never be again. The sun, a molten 📀 in the fading sky,
Casts long, skeletal shadows,
Stretching, reaching, grasping—
For something, anything, to hold. But the tide, it takes,
It always takes,
Pulling us all toward the unknown,
The unfathomable vastness 🌌 Where truth and illusion dance
A dizzying waltz 💫
On the razor's edge of oblivion. And yet,
Even as the waves crash,
Erasing footprints from the shore,
A single, defiant 🐚 remains,
A testament to the enduring power
Of what is lost,
And what is left behind.
## A Poet on the Precipice of the Unsayable: Deciphering a Signature This poet operates within the liminal spaces of language, embracing chaos and unpredictability as the defining forces of both life and art. Their work is a testament to the belief that meaning, like life itself, is a fluid, fragmented, and ultimately unknowable entity, best apprehended through oblique glances and leaps of faith. This ethos permeates their poetics, manifesting in a style that is simultaneously minimalistic and expansive, playful and profound. Their poems, often resembling cryptic artifacts unearthed from the depths of an ancient language, are imbued with a sense of raw immediacy. Fragmentation is not merely a stylistic choice but a philosophical stance; it mirrors the fractured nature of experience itself. Linear narratives are eschewed in favor of a mosaic-like approach, where seemingly disparate fragments coalesce to form a larger, often unsettling, whole. They echo the sentiment found in their manifesto: “The world doesn’t make sense; we do,” acknowledging the inherent absurdity of existence while simultaneously striving to impose meaning upon it. Their affinity for the chaotic heart of language is evident in their unconventional use of form. They wield minimalism as a scalpel, stripping language down to its barest bones, exposing the raw nerve endings of meaning. Single-word poems, stark and evocative, become linguistic koans, inviting the reader to contemplate the weight of a single utterance, the resonance of a single sound. The influence of visual poetry is undeniable. Whitespace becomes as crucial as the words themselves, shaping the reader's experience, forcing pauses, creating silences pregnant with unspoken possibility. Their poems demand to be seen as much as read, their visual layout integral to their meaning. This embrace of the visual extends to their innovative use of Unicode symbols. These symbols, often relegated to the margins of language, are given new life, their inherent strangeness and ambiguity harnessed to create startling juxtapositions and unexpected semantic collisions. A single symbol might act as a portal to a hidden world, a key to unlock the poem’s deeper layers. Their exploration of sound further underscores their fascination with the materiality of language. Words are chosen not just for their semantic content but for their sonic qualities –– their rhythm, their texture, the way they reverberate in the mind. Assonance and consonance create subtle echoes and dissonances, weaving a tapestry of sound that both complements and complicates the poem’s meaning. This playful engagement with language is evident in their deft use of wordplay. Puns, neologisms, and linguistic slippages abound, creating a sense of delightful disorientation. The reader is constantly kept off-balance, forced to question their assumptions about the fixed nature of meaning. This echoes their manifesto’s assertion that "poetry’s freedom" lies in its “aversion of conformity and in its resistance to the restrictions of market-driven popularity.” Their poems are imbued with a wry humor that borders on the absurd. This is not humor for the sake of mere amusement; rather, it serves as a coping mechanism, a way of grappling with the inherent absurdity of existence. They find humor in the mundane, the tragic, and the profound, reminding us that even in the darkest of times, there is always room for a sardonic chuckle. Beneath the surface playfulness lies a deep vein of philosophical inquiry. Their poems grapple with existential questions about the nature of reality, the elusiveness of meaning, and the fragility of human connection. They are drawn to paradox and ambiguity, finding in these spaces the potential for profound insight. Their poems, like the koans they often resemble, offer no easy answers, instead prompting the reader to embark on their own journey of discovery. Reading their work is an active, participatory experience. Their poems are not passive vessels of meaning but dynamic fields of possibility, demanding that the reader engage with their ambiguities, their contradictions, their moments of jarring juxtaposition. The reader is tasked with becoming a co-creator, filling in the gaps, drawing connections, and ultimately arriving at their own, necessarily subjective, interpretation. Their poems often evoke a sense of longing for something just out of reach. There is a yearning for connection, for transcendence, for a glimpse of order amidst the chaos. Yet, this longing is tempered by an awareness of the impossibility of its fulfillment. This tension between hope and despair, between meaning and meaninglessness, lies at the heart of their work. They are poets of the liminal, of the in-between, of the space where certainty dissolves and the unknown beckons. Their poems, like fragments of a shattered mirror, reflect the fragmented nature of our own existence, reminding us that it is in the cracks and fissures that true beauty and meaning reside. **Identifying the Signature** Encountering a poem by this poet is an experience unlike any other. It is an invitation to enter a world where the familiar is made strange, where language is both playground and battleground, and where meaning is not something to be passively consumed but actively constructed. Here are some telltale signs that you are in the presence of their unique voice: * **The Unexpected Juxtaposition:** Prepare to be startled by the collision of seemingly disparate elements. A mundane object placed alongside a metaphysical concept. A profound philosophical insight delivered with a wink and a nod. Their poems thrive on the friction generated when different registers of language, different modes of thought, are brought into uneasy, yet exhilarating, proximity. * **The Elusive Whisper:** Silence is as important as sound in their work. Be attentive to the spaces between words, the blank spaces on the page. These are not merely voids but pregnant pauses, inviting contemplation, allowing the poem’s echoes to reverberate long after the final word has been read. * **The Unicode Cipher:** Deciphering their poems often feels like cracking a code. Pay close attention to their use of Unicode symbols. These symbols, far from being mere decoration, function as linguistic wild cards, introducing an element of chance, of the unforeseen, into the reading experience. * **The Humorous Abyss:** Do not be fooled by their playful use of language. Beneath the surface humor lies a deep well of existential angst. Their poems often dance along the precipice of the abyss, inviting us to confront the absurdity of existence with a mixture of laughter and dread. * **The Incomplete Map:** Their poems are not destinations but journeys. They offer no easy answers, no comforting resolutions. Instead, they provide us with fragments, glimpses, and suggestions, inviting us to become active participants in the creation of meaning. * **The Linguistic Playground:** Their poems are testaments to the boundless possibilities of language. Be prepared for neologisms, puns, and linguistic inventions that stretch the boundaries of what words can do. To encounter a poem by this poet is to have one’s perception of language irrevocably altered. It is to realize that the true power of poetry lies not in its ability to provide answers but in its capacity to ask questions that resonate long after the poem has ended, leaving the reader forever changed by the encounter.
## ::| ∞♥︎
## 🜁 mixture 🜄
🜁
. a
s i l e n c e
feather falls
softly, light
merging, breath
a n d s k y
a single note
**mixture**
🜄
g
l
a
s
s
shattered,
a scream rips
the night,
echoes linger,
s t a i n i n g
the silence,
a wound
that will
not
h
e
a
l
## ∄xit Through the Gif(t)shop
respons
ibility
a
f
t
e
r
t
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⎀h░a░n░d░
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hand.
## ⟲TOURniquet⟲
Birthstarved, abundance,
choked on its echo. A universe
unraveling, a TOUR
of silence.
We, the anchored,
probe the void with
borrowed light.
each
word
a desperate
prayer,
a fleeting
constellation
against
the encroaching
dark.
Yet, even here,
in the belly
of nothingness,
a seed.
⟲
░̯ Hope's Braille ░̯
.s
light t h e
re a ch
f a l l s
silence, yes, but a . . . .
░̯ kind