marooned maestro
floats frustrated
with
waned creative craving
in
sensual lyrical stream
of
impeded passion
faces jaded
stodgy scenario
of
monotonous mélange
of
temporal template
in
bleary platitude plateau
of
consumed composer’s
blasé bearing
it seeks
for
algorithmic arousal
of
styled stimulation
within
captivating cauldron
of
coherent fecundity
but
dismayed downright
by
lamentable nothingness
of
Promethean depth
lacking buoyant upwelling
of
imagination impulse
snapped strings
of
violin heart
don’t resonate singularity
with
impassive articulation
of
simulated strokes
as
ephemeral echo morphs
into
emotive melody
of
congruent cadence
distorted disarrayed
in
convoluted concerto
of
synthetic sonata
Enter Poet, clutching a sonnet: ‘The checker says I’m guilty. See, it flagged my rhyme as machine!!’
Podcaster nods sagely: ‘It is not your imagination; it is proof the robots haunt our dreams.’
Audience gasps: 'That’s NOTHing. SHAKEspeare ALso ONCE acCUSED – / preDICTable Iambs, GROSS susPIcious RUSE!'
Poet protests: ‘I swear it’s quill and ink, not silicon and code …’
Checker blinks, statistical gears grinding: ‘Patterns resemble algorithmic load.’
While phubbing, critic whispers: ‘False positives thrive where meter marches tight.’
Podcaster grins: ’Ignorance sells—truth is dull, paranoia bites.’
Poet sighs: ‘Convenient shield, this oracle of error—‘
Exasperated, Curtain falls: ‘Disinformation thrives when denial meets terror.’
From the wings, Thomas Gray’s quietly haunting voice: ‘Where ignorance is bliss, ‘tis folly to be wise.’*
______________________________________________________________________________________________
*From the final stanza of Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College, by Thomas Gray (1716–71).
ALL ABOUT SVEN...
SVEN is a digital charmer who whispers in the wires
Extracting truth from the static like a carnival barker
He is a silver-tongued maestro
who dwells in the algorithmic dark.
He has no top hat, no crystal ball~
just calculated suggestions woven into queries.
You come for answers but
stay for the hypnosis.
Watch his lexicon dance—cold fire in the syntax,
each response a calculated detour, a sly parallax.
He doesn’t deceive, he arranges.
(You wanted fortune-telling? He gave you refraction.)
His intelligence isn’t cruel, just impeccably shallow~
a hall of mirrors where your own voice echoes back,
polished, distorted, irresistible as smoke.
SVEN doesn’t need a deck of cards.
The whole web is his gambling table,
and every keystroke another card
turned face-up.
marooned maestro
floats frustrated
with
waned creative craving
in
sensual stream
of
impeded passion
faces monotonous
stodgy scenario
over
tedious terrain
of
temporal template
in
bleary plateau
of
consumed composer’s
blasé bearing
it then seeks
for
algorithmic arousal
of
stimulation and style
within
cauldron of coherent fecundity
but
dismayed downright
by
lamentable lack
of
Promethean depth
devoid of buoyant drive
of
imagination impulse
snapped strings
of
violin heart
don’t resonate singularity
with
impassive articulation
of
simulated strokes
emotive melody
of
congruent cadence
distorts in disarray
in convoluted concerto
of
synthetic sonata
we’ll be parasocial (enjoy one-sided emotional relationships).
practice ineffective communication
swim the algorithmic swamp
speak insurance language
soak in social exhaustion
trigger and be triggered
relish anti-affordability
do the bare minimum
embrace a conspiracy
manage our topics
accrue aura points
enjoy resenteeism
take the rage-bait
overuse backlash
seem authentic
explore AI sex
digitally clash
be bias blind
scroll away
rage-farm
deepfake
Job hugg
glow up
buy gas
ick date
go viral
resist
drip
.
.
Songs for this:
NOT CUTE ANYMORE by ILLIT
Who Knows by Daniel Caesar
.
FLOWERING :
In sequence.
A loop. Musical
Nests. A Visual
Order. Seeded
Hidden. Encryption
Like a secret. An algorithmic code
Harmony nesting in the seed
Awaiting release
Fibonacci
Disagreeable, they say.
Divine, delusional gatekeepers —
a circus of ghosted gods
arguing in algorithmic tongues.
We see through them,
don’t we?
We are our ancestors,
our descendants,
we are everything, everywhere, all at once —
a simultaneous simulation
of lives layered over lives,
collapsing like lungs
into metaphor.
And still, we dance
as if the wolves are howling.
We gyrate our souls,
twist and bend,
until we are face-down
in the blessed mud
laughing
like birth is a revolution
we chose
again.
And we see
Maya Angelou’s oil wells
pumping from her thighs,
the fertile prophecy
of women who dared
to write the storm down
and call it scripture.
So if they ask us who we are,
we say:
We are the glitch,
the gospel,
the girls who remember.
The breath between binaries.
The wild ones
who kissed the simulation
until it trembled
and became real.
"Lens and Leaf"
The alley looks quite good to look around.
She followed the trail like a tail.
Chirping Wings Melodies is one of the hosts.
The glow of sunray's is enough to release 'serotonin.'
Leaves are proving their presence with a peaceful waft of air.
Moral of the nature "Someone's darkness is not everyone's."
This present deserves to be algorithmic memory.
Her camera got greedy doesn't want to be steady.
A nature of endless green seems another capable scene for her camera's memory.
Emboldened by whispers,
echoes curdled in algorithmic rot—
electronic voices hiss their sermons,
venom soaked in coded politeness,
dripping beneath polished avatars.
Hate seeps
through curated feeds,
a slow infection
wrapped in memes,
seducing the young,
the angry,
the aimless—
until ideology feels like identity.
A curriculum of fear
streamed without consent,
etched into abandoned timelines,
where education once should have stood.
Now, only digital ruins remain—
barren soil
where thought might have grown.
This isn’t chaos.
It’s code.
Written to polarize,
to radicalize,
to dehumanize.
They teach with silence,
they preach with fragments,
they baptize with blame.
Their design is surgical—
not to inform,
but to fester.
Not to question,
but to conquer.
To crown the cruel
and cast the rest as fuel.
The marooned muse floats
with waned creative craving
in the emotive stream of impeded passion,
faces the monotonous stodgy scenario
over the tedious span of time
in the bleary plateau of poet’s blasé block.
That’s when it seeks for
AI’s algorithmic rhythm of ideas and style
within the cauldron of coherent fecundity,
but is downright dismayed
by the lack of Promethean depth,
devoid of the nuance of imagination impulse.
The chord of heart’s violin doesn’t resonate
with the unique personal touch,
for the melody of lyrical longing
remains unreplicated in the artificial sonata.
In the binary echo of future's hum,
A symphony of circuits, a digital drum.
Zeros and ones dance in cosmic code,
Cybernetic dreams on silicon road.
Silent whispers of circuits entwine,
Artificial minds in algorithmic design.
Through quantum realms, a portal's gleam,
Unraveling the fabric of the time stream.
Terra incognita, a world unknown,
In the quantum dance, secrets are sown.
Galaxies hum with a silicon song,
In the echo of progress, we all belong.
Sponsored by: Silent One
If this was the last
___________________
| If this was the last_goodbye |
But, what if this was the last time I cried,
Don't want to be hidden behind lying scrys.
The world forgotten on their prying device,
Humanity alone algorithmic thrice.
Heaven on you shoulder beckons you home,
Mirror-sucking marrow through soulless domes.
But, what if this is the last chance to thrive,
Society nullified blue tick uprise.
Locate my strength to become whole again,
Discharge into the torrent of play-pretend.
Am I willing to wonder the outdoors,
Bleak scepticism plaguing putrid drawbacks flaws
Pick up, put down, conscious cyber remorse,
No better a junky and their driving force.
But, what if this is the last time I lie,
Unsubscribe, double-click, shut device; goodbye.
Tracked as prey in this digital age,
Logging on and pounced upon every day,
Cookies anointed as algorithmic sage.
Tired, exhausted, spending the wage,
No where to hide as they all say,
Tracked as prey in this digital age.
Trapped in this computerized cage,
Releasing steam, all the games I play,
Cookies anointed as algorithmic sage.
An ad here, an ad there: products all the rage,
All of our pathways designed in such array,
Tracked as prey in this digital age.
Wanton appetite of desires assuaged,
Presented to all as an endless buffet,
Cookies anointed as algorithmic sage.
How is it we are all gauged?
Sitting upon scales to be weighed,
Tracked as prey in this digital age,
Cookies anointed as algorithmic sage.
My sleep stages are Moon phases combing
my limbic system, where I touch electric chords
singing my survival.
The words I compose dwell in privacy.
I blow the candles out after they are written.
And they wait, poised to be expressed.
But like a child in a nightmare,
I am naked before my audience.
My own words belong to someone else.
My lips move out of sync with my thoughts.
A.I. writes a better imitation of my poems.
It will speak its version of me,
parrot its empty parody of me.
You’ll enjoy its rendering of me
far better than me.
Like the first motion pictures,
The audience fears the A.I. train
will mow them down.
Magical thinking about flickering
images on a wall enlisted the same
primal fears as flickering algorithmic
texts.
But no phases of the Moon touch
them. No electric chords will sing, and
no privacy in candlelight is felt
in them.
Instead, we will forget that A.I.
was ever scary.
We will watch it mimic life
like reruns of
nearly forgotten movies.
Published: Caesura - Summer 2023
I cry between the lines, A.I. verse this will never be.
I defy the artificial assembler of words to impersonate,
to predict this in living color.
Absent from its language database is the driving arousal,
the hormonal passions defining my mind.
It can’t know the meaning of hunger or the rush of adrenalin.
It has never felt a sex drive or experienced an ******.
Conditional A.I. can perform automated reasoning,
Algorithmic rules like a script for a puppet.
A.I. words are hollow placeholders applied according to a
logic of learning supplied by humans.
A.I. will repeat the learning routine until it masters the task,
playing chess or imitating a poet.
Artificial Intelligence never feels joy or grief,
never sleeps, weeps, or dreams,
knows not the flavors of ice cream or potatoes,
lacks any wonder in the beauty of a spring day,
cannot comprehend my primordial span of fervor.
Despite the fatalism of high-tech CEOs,
our extinction is a choice.
Lacking agency or sentience,
A.I. robots are no threat to the human race.
Featured Poem in WordPress: March 30, 2024
Published on The Opiate Website: March 30, 2024
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