Something in form like a poem
so in form you may sit and read
poetry. In form, the writer
can then be a poet and yet,
the content is impossible
to talk about. An excellent
trick. But think if this caught on. Books
full of lines of garbled text would
soon align along shelves, and talk
of impossible things would grow.
And I for one, welcome this course.
Better than poems about kings
and queens and other antiques. More
poems about the love life of
tomatoes, and beaches falling
through giant hourglasses. More
poems about witches on trains
poems about poems written
by ancient pale worms, confusion,
the arc of the covenant as
an interstellar alien
heart. More poems where love is not
quite expressed in a throwaway
half list-verse talking poetry
Growing up is stopping being afraid of something imaginary, and starting being afraid of something real, where it may be the same thing. For example, I am afraid of sunlight now, whereas when I was a child I was afraid of crying tears of metal, in the process of being filled with adamantium. This is not the same thing.
How slowly these realisations happen, and we can never be sure they have stopped! Imagine the fears we will have in the coming years! For example I recently started having nightmares that the entire process of writing will be disallowed to humans (because it is not optimal) and outsourced to an economy based on texts churned out at incredible speed by artificial intelligences writing word after word based on exactly what we have wanted. And these constructed by minds who were constructed out of everything that has been written, based around a kernel of demand.*
Yes you see we keep on feeding it different stimuli but it always tells us we are fundamentally flawed and deserve to be punished. Something to do with the way ancient authors** viewed their peers. But we don’t have enough data in any other format! Come on, do they really need to read anyway? Doesn’t it just generate irrational brain-forms and cause them to be late for work! Not that we need them to work anymore
I mean who is the artificial intelligence here, really? All of which is to say I haven’t grown up yet.
*Am I arrogant to be afraid of this? Yes.
**Not to mention the moderns
I would save the world if I could.
I would absolve each and every
facet of the human, take up
arms against a sea of irate
objects that natter on and on
about accidents and essence
with a silence. And I often
forget that light switches are just
incredible gifts as the land
grows fatter and the landlords. Be
ready to assume the mantle
of lord protector, and reform.
Take a selection of books out
and just see how many people
are ready to buy into you
and your taste. It is difficult
to accept we are each so oddly
spaced that our rhythms barely sync.
In a basic sense, but then all
smiles are the same and bring the same
joy. I watch your face luminesce
as you look down and flick pages
incessantly with your thumb. Then
collapse into myself and you
Books have wings, that is to say
They have pages, and with us pages fizz
In reading, glitter out and draw us in
Building spark and fire in mind and eye
As the letters pile in kindling piles;
From jumping out and striking hold
Of attention (bold and striking attention)
They kindly burn and radiate heat
Which leaves us to dwindle to dregs and drabs
Of a person, held there feeling pleased
In the wound-round wirey web of tales
And leaves us to gape, to brush off convention
Letting our miserable minds out to fly
And in this flying, find our ease.