Knowledge. I use the word to invert it knowing now it lost you and what good is between us, though nothing, finds me many quiet deaths
And I can't be with you even as friends waiting for you to release me
These appetites: Shapes, Run fingers through dimension; And Rimbaud’s regret? To sprawl oneself bare On dynamic growth, youth did not have Depth, Age grows too brittle and arthritic There are worse things than inexperience! The measure is what one has not –yet what Was charming of African earth? -Consistency in the predator’s gaze -A delicate (simple) joy bending to the sun Libertineflesh sheathed its poet’s death; With no remorse in the seasons’ passage This dead poet’s footnotes trailed To find art living as concubine
Hanoi, for you, I without family come 8,000 miles I, the flâneur, walk between your glass gods and carapace-husks take in electric smoke, petrol fume welcoming Sodom where I go here our dreaming Gautama stuck in never-black night the very dead patriarch greeting eternal a fleeting sun and why shouldn't the world (this flesh monopoly) also reel a crusted cheek out of its starry hole? Nonetheless a woman bentback on stool cooks her luncheon patties, smiles to me waves the broth-drip noodle, mint sprigs, with a tong I not unwelcoming sit
the gusts, the pasture quakes bovines yelling in the wheatgrass the stink of flesh, stink of bile irises crushed, crackle of tiny bone colourful pulp flows down the grate drain the human shapes in pockets of dark in dust silhouette clouds hang over the Occident and a pangolin is roasted
The hills of Gondwana did not bear your hatred and split thereby. Nor did the species spread to your design, nor the arc of planets your geometry nor does your brain pump its heart for you, nor is a crimson skyline, the burning juniper, great canyon and the depth of wilderness perfect for your poem, your picture Those tears can never wet the desert, even the sun nukes skin. Even life is a metaphor for death and all written words, the colours on blank, a secret reconciliation with that death Yet still
The sun is a bastard Whom I love. Moon does not understand I am cheating with soil. The mossbeds rise like breath The crows do not observe, they do not know I cheat With worms. Locked in leaves, green juice. Find me Polaris burning in a hovel We knew the world was dark and feral Many heads and fangs, as I, pink tongue Cup rainwater in my milksoft skull. Assail wheat and tawny oat The sprucebranch I hold bending forever
Speed disciplined the mind. The mode: time translated to purpose. I've considered poetry to be in-conducive, a fight with memory, shuttled through a black box. What information do you need? You are experiencing through words- What? To sit alone and read was once strange. One had to speak the word, or sing, to an audience. Augustine appeared other-worldy in his chair, reading silently. Is there contempt for inner music?
The one with science and technology being sensationalized – idiosyncrisis
I express some thoughts on Neuralink, physics and AI. I consider science to exist also as a commercial industry, and much of what we know of it is sensationalized because the platforms we use to get scientific knowledge, for the majority of people, function like businesses that are selling highly marketable products (ideas), which naturally causes a loss of scientific rigour and accuracy. So we are filled with a kind of pop-science understanding of AI, space, physics, and technology. And thinkers who provide sober and realistic perspectives are less considered and more disincentivized to partake in mainstream scientific discourse. Basically, when confronted with any public thinker we have to ask ourselves: What is this person trying to sell me? Scientist I forgot the name of: Sabine Hossenfelder
There she is, my love, oh So pretty, so worthwhile Look at the hours go by Take a look at how She uses compassion As 10 sharpened prongs, oh My love, That voice is a Sweet prosody, hear The sizzling of her brand On my skin, oh My empathy, young heart, oh.