he gathered up the trailing wire.
the data was neatly filed on the net
since papyrus was perishable.

behind the wheel,
moral questions run
together like gunfire.

cut-up piece generated by prosaic from a corpus of 30 cyberpunk novels. a part of the cyberpunk prophecies series.

his bones were pulled out, but
he still had his anger, fast
and ragged over the wet cobble
of a giant pump assembly.

it was black here, and riddled with tunnels.
the coleopter whimpers in metallic pain
to the distant throbbing of music:
a wave of grief and exultation.

cut-up piece generated by prosaic from a corpus of 30 cyberpunk novels. a part of the cyberpunk prophecies series.

repeated–holding on–the dawn; the sun.
A boy, along appointed sands. A child,
the first in fight! The two Malays, unmoved,

a fame petite–a few ascetic eyes–
in England. If the streets were running, and
the bridges often go. The time. The sun!

Her lips; a purple tar, the sea. The sun.
The chief. A man. A light. The hope, amongst
the men in them. The thunder–had expired–

in human nature’s West! The apple on
the glass. The creatures chuckled on the ground,
between the rooms, until the morning and

the silence of the bird, a leap, a half
a smile, her face, her fingers at the child
in his possession–of the host–away.

Composed using Gnoetry0.2. End-user added a few em-dashes a’la Dickinson…

Texts:
Emily Dickinson, Complete Dickinson
Joseph Conrad, An Outcast of the Islands

there was a silence,
an abdication of the pioneer,
and pieces of a korean pickup.

for a while, they were right,
after splattered dripping drinks
and a jittered laser track.

the alley was empty again
and i must not port
the sick lurch of my thoughts

or see the holo of the princess
that posed a danger
to the other power nations.

cut-up piece generated by prosaic from a corpus of 30 cyberpunk novels. a part of the cyberpunk prophecies series.

rusted iron triangles
resonate in white
mausoleums

love letters inscribed on my tongue. the brandings of a red dragon. pockets of nothing. perfect servitude.

bee keepers lamenting the stinger.

someone who matters,
an assertive air of ersatz authority,
they used that stuff.

security at the morrisey.
with his other hand
singapore is a phone call away

cut-up piece generated by prosaic from a corpus of 30 cyberpunk novels. a part of the cyberpunk prophecies series.

At edde’s suggestion, I’ve been toying around with WordCram the last few days. I can’t lie: I love it. He also suggested that I post something of that genre here (“visual poetry built from a language model”, as he put it, does seem like it’d fit in, here). I’m still tinkering, though, so that might have to wait until next week (or the week after, seeing as next week brings my daughter’s birthday, followed quickly by my own, and promises to be super-busy).

Instead, then, something that caught my attention earlier today. The source text is this post on Google+, which, frankly, I am at a loss to describe. I ran it through charNG, and the results were, needless to say, rather amusing.

Enjoy!

Together
    or
not
        together in
loss through repeated infection in
despair, I come
         healthy
		  here
		to
lose. I wish
to lose. I WILL SEE my Truth.
      Not that
I am
    too
	  gentle.
	 that is unnecessary to suffer, I guarantee it. I
   wish together in our
    Truth to lose.
I am an I,
agonizing ego. The One Soul that
I
  am and am yours.
               Cease the
   illness, distraction.
                   Cease 
the mental
     kidney failure specifically.
  I can't avoid it
       completely.
	 OUR SOUL IS CALLING IN ALL WAYS. I AM YOU.
	 I wish to lose,
     wonderful, but together.
Not us. That is
why we are. We are everythings.
         (If you
       get us
     ignore this.)

a king without an army
hardly deserves the name
& so I roll this oblong
slipknot around
your neck
& ride you into the sun

oOoOooOoOooOoOo

written while falsely imprisoned at ecmc

You have invited Strallan:
But life is a game, and we must appear ridiculous
With our starts of horror at our cosmic voyages.

I will ask Thomas.
No matter what comes,
Consciousness will manifest:
It is the frightened meeping of a ghoul.

This was not Jimmy’s idea;
I like a man of strong beliefs,
But against my will he carried me
Beyond the last rim of the galaxy.

cut-up piece generated by prosaic from a corpus of Downton Abbey subtitles and selected H.P. Lovecraft works.

================================================

I wish to add feeling to feeling the same.
I say to them what it is to be a robin.
As if a fire is sleepy and thinking out loud.
You may certainly question it but it’s still a volcano.
I may be mistaken about this.
I think that would be to misunderstand pansies.
Anyone who says, “I know that,” I do do to.
Can anyone say instead of animals, “That is a violet,” etc.
Admittedly one can say in any way off.
Otherwise it would be so dull with languages.
Suppose how you feel how often in any way off.
Does anyone knowing how know how alike, how does a violet, etc.
I believe that I have been come from there where.
Otherwise it would be neither as there as where there.
He took the roses and the sky blue all the same.
The beauty of certainties. And what about pansies.
Suppose I add to show you the opposite.
How do you know if my efforts tell us the future.
Not because it is dead and will be.
It’s more that one needs like it’s impossible.
It feels just like I am as wrong now as pansies, etc.
I can’t give you reasons to ask questions, you need to find them.
I often feel better when I decide something.
If I do not add to it will they not exist.
It’s not what they mean, I must not think it oh no oh no.
They may be mistaken about it too.
Suppose I add to show that I trust and love them.
I often think how I care for them.
I can’t see how it was ever in doubt about pansies.

================================================

Composed in collaboration with Gnoetry 0.2 and the following source texts:
Gertrude Stein, Stanzas in Meditation (the corrected edition)
Ludwig Wittgenstein, On Certainty