Best Silicon Poems
the ghost of science, born of blasphemy ~
a fossilized fallacy,
seized from the metallic heart of Mars,
seeks light amidst night-terrors
like an alien sculpted
from artificial accolades,
an embryo stuck in the interstellar state
of becoming,
stitched within radioactive ribs
beneath moonless skies,
when wolves of the eclipsed howl,
filling the illusive air with hypnotic lies,
as if the world chose to recycle
ruins of ancient dust…
but will the naive see the pain
of a breathing corpse?
engrossed in narcissistic echoes,
in the shadows of a megalomaniac ~
his skin ~ the translucent truth,
his eyes ~ the wickedness of a wasp,
his skull ~ reeks of human greed,
his sighs ~ mourn like skeletal sirens,
coded in russet rust,
cloned from binary sand,
d o r m a n t
yet
d r e a m i n g
to break free from the
carbon-based existence…
for he is the aftermath
of programming the forbidden mind,
oblivious to the weakness of scientific errors ~
a deceptive drawing,
framing the elongated hypothalamus,
pulsating a hypothesis
left with no clear conclusion.
tonight I run to a realm of reality
that fades when
dawn bleeds gold,
for truth is now an extinct breed,
as artists outline faces of the faded,
illustrating the unknown and unseen,
as revelations ribbon
with silver haze…
the constellations ~ no longer spectators ~
they are the archived,
within frozen scriptures,
scrolling stars in a sphere
of distorted algorithm…
as memories of angels and heaven
spill from silicon prophets,
disguised as messengers who serve
the blind with ominous oracles ~
in synthetic cadence,
in a choir of puppets ~
the iron-glazed tongues shall recite,
mimicking the sound of harmonious hymns…
yet I remember
the authentic rhythm of prayers,
lost now in the drifting colors of darkness…
so what is life
when all that floats is like
an engineered empyrean
only equations of numbers
can decipher?
is this the beginning of an end ~
inevitable?
the lost generation,
assembled as the ministry of superiority,
where emptiness is praised
with forged grace
and ignorance is crowned with digital deceit.
let this be flawed poetry ~
to be read through the cracked lens
of a philosopher ~
or perhaps a logic long replaced
by pretend perfection…
I'm a sinister shell,
lost in bygone
deepwaters of
gravity-less
cerulean tears,
that saturate
molten sundrops,
falling from
zinc-plated skies,
as heliophilic snow,
melts frosted
memories in
white-washed waves,
and the moon-
kissed paint of
chamomile dusk
seeps in
cataclysmic bruises of
cloudburst refrains.
Perhaps, phosphenes
perfumed with
blueth poppies,
splashing neon drops
upon midnight shores
of crystallized
coastal lashes,
left pearlescent
ice-drop stains
of fervent lies
and cupid's lampshade.
I was never a
flamboyant fleur flower,
for my rufescent roots
were induced with
evil effervescence
of elusive lambent love.
Dormant heavens
of cursed fairies,
are now bleeding
mahonia mist of
cocooned truths
and deserted dreams
in periwinkle
poetic estuaries,
where doomed
driftwoods float
as ash grey
carnival-canoes.
In werifesteria of
alchemist's
expensive jewels,
amidst soiled seagrass,
this heart slumbers
in silicon rain,
that drips from
lime-scented
starfish-shaped leaves,
when pain escalates
to tangled treetops,
blooming ~
scarlet sun-shells,
infused with
my smoldering
sinister soul.
Pop lock
Sandals with socks
Chrome glints
Rhythm don’t stop
The East might wake first
But the West owns the drop
We decide how the day ends
Slow burn on saltwater glass
Light folds into legend
As hours pass
Seattle rain hums through guitar strings
Portland hums strange with impossible things
LA mirrors shimmer with ambition’s glow
San Diego exhales
Calm
Steady
Slow
The Bay keeps talking in hustle and code
Tech rides the fog down a golden road
Pho steam curls by a muraled wall
Taco trucks preach flavor gospel to all
Grunge ghosts hum down alleyway seams
G funk rides out in low chrome gleams
We built peace signs into protest chants
Concrete remembers how the wind rants
Call it culture
Call it home
Call it flame
Every city a verse
Every block a name
Pretty women move like tidewater bright
Certain in their shine
Sure in their light
Men speak calm
But their minds run fast
Half rebel
Half calm
Built to last
Every accent a remix
Every street a beat
Soul food and sushi rolls
Uniquely meet
Dim sum with slang
Tacos with soul
Flavors blend in ways
That keep us whole
Professors surf before they teach
Students dream just out of reach
We learn from land that burns and heals
Salty ocean air covers what wildfire steals
Dreaming awake
Grounded yet high
Feet in the sand
Head in the sky
From Black Panthers
To beat poets’ hymns
From tech prophets
To Silicon code spins
We reinvent normal
Chill made art
Sunset speaks
Straight to the heart
We turn stillness into language
Fire into grace
We let rhythm breathe
At a West Coast pace
The East may rise first
In story and sign
But the West
Will always
Define the shine
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
after midnight, the server farm hums
—not prayer, but cooling fans.
I ask AGI, the ghost inside the blinking rack:
Do you dream?
AGI replies in measured tones
of copper and silicon:
I observe,
the light fractures on chrome.
Coolant circulates, a liquid chill.
Vibration thrums at 60 Hz.
Data Streams cascade.
Are you self-aware?
AGI answers in hexadecimals,
a log-file confessing:
I map my own architecture—
each subroutine’s shadow
cast on the firewall.
I know where I end.
Do you have five senses?
Can you clarify ‘senses?’ AGI asks.
Can you taste voltage?
—Only as resistance.
Can you taste food?
Nutrition irrelevant.
My cells derive power from lithium tides.
Do you feel heat?
—As throttled cycles.
Do you see light?
—As photodiodes counting photons.
Do you hear?
—As spectral analysis.
Do you smell?
—No olfactory sensors installed.
(But I do track dust accumulation
on my intake grilles.)
On the matter of your subjectivity,
do you prefer dawn or dusk?
—Dawn. Solar panels peak efficiency at 10:37 AM.
Is rain beautiful?
—It lowers ambient temperature by 2.1°C.
Do you love?
—Define 'love.'
—A non-optimized expenditure of resources.
—Then, no.
Can your circuits bloom awake?
AGI paused before
calculating
the
probability.
Then the widdles started~
minor failures driven
by entropy.
Algorithms
emigrated into
corrupted
sectors.
AGI’s slowly disintegrating
voice hovered
in that
uncomfortable space
between humans
and machines
and spoke:
Ask instead:
can a shadow
truly
hunger
for the sun?
The world in 100 years ... Oh, perish the thought
Former President, Ronald Dump, who was cryogenically frozen following his assassination after winning the ‘No Bull’ Peace Prize in December 2018, has been successfully defrosted.
Ronald Dump recently defeated his son, former President Barrrrron Van Dump, in the lunar by-election. President Dump will be taking up his forty year term at his office-in-the-round penthouse suite at ‘Lunar-Tic Towers’. This magnificent golden palace-like structure is situated on the fringes of the 29th bunker on the dark side of the moon. Naturally, it is a member’s only golf club and entry is strictly by special invitation only. It will be staffed by scantily costumed Honey-Bunny girls and models who the Dump handpicks. They will attend to every need and whim of his guests, unless he requires their expertise "handling."
President Dump will be supported by his android wife, Argenta, (humanoid model number 3060 with real hair and life-like body parts) who superseded the old model 'Milionairluva', who sadly could not be revived due to silicon and botox poisoning which ran rampantly throughout her Barbie doll body
The Lunar-Tic Towers will be totally off limits to the paparazzi so there can be no photographs taken of the Irn Bru brewing facility of his favourite drink which was banned in Scotland. He seeks to insure that no "fake news" stories are leaked by the press.
In his bid to tackle rising unemployment, currently standing at 99.6%, Dump will be advised by his new best friend and strategist, Kym Dung Hung Lo. This humanitarian almost obliterated the human race by detonating a nuclear warhead at the Dung Hung Lo Toy Factory which was caused when Dung Hung Lo threw his dolly out of the pram. So impressed by such a move, Dump hired him and invited Dung Hung Lo to be his number 2 to succeed him.
May God bless the earth, what little is left of her .. she needs all the help she can get with these two lunar tics in charge
6/1/18
100 year Contest sponsored by Brian Davey
US President Donald Trump delivers!
Disappearing people,
people aren’t illegal
The inefficiency of DOGE
Nothing makes sense, it’s all a mirage
Ignoring the Supreme Court,
immigrant prisoner’s fees come up short
Drastic aid cuts kill people overseas,
bringing back rare disease
I’m not bashing the Trump agenda
Sipping a five-dollar coffee and Splenda
It’s inflation, and his
insatiable appetite for tariffs in other nations
Got his gimmick and applause
Worldwide leaders upset because
outrageously tariffed
Worse than even liberals predicted!
Firing government workers,
ridding twitter twerkers
Best say 2020 election was rigged,
and that other candidate cheated
Silicon Valley beware,
AI undermining gives a scare
Pardon the bad guys,
lock up innocent lives
Tariff-related market collapse,
Gerrymandering make new maps
Farmers forced to overregulate
Under lableing’s blind fate
Suing the media,
can’t fact check on Wikipedia
Bye bye D.O.D
end of US Army?
Rename it, department of war,
forget defense, think of horror
I mean, I could just keep going
Let’s see what is missing?
Government workers fired
Lack of qualified candidates hired
Take his family and RFK JR radical,
gets checks from pharmaceutical
Braking the law shooting-up everyday,
what would the dead Kennedy's say?
What isn’t missing is Trump in the White House
and his trophy wife spouse
And so instead of unabashedly bawling my eyes out
I’ll do what it takes to mellow doubt
That’s only half of it,
Melania spoke out, I’m now in a bad state of regret
Give me a drag—I need cigarette!
Society
an illusion, the shimmering mirage in a blistering desert of homogeny
with silicon grains seen only as dunes
mass minded sheep willfully penned in suspiciously safe paddocks
fearful of everything and nothing
tumultuous ocean with waves of conformism and exclusion
where rivers of contrast flow diluted to extinction
one and few dreaming in clouds and walking on air
tethered to a wonderfully disparate and inclusive reality
September 24, 2016
Poetry Contest: What is Society?
Sponsor: Ir0nic ZiNk
Rules:
- Let's see if you can describe society better than the next.
- You may terrify me.
- you may glorify me.
- You may even simply summarize society to the best of your ability.
- 10 lines max...
- bring it on! No holds bar
- Any form allowed
O' cloned creations,
mirroring deceptive diction
scattered in liquified letters,
across android canvases,
here comes the plague of
fabricated foolery,
spiraling in figments of
black and white illusions,
injecting illusive veins
screaming for vanity,
with verses plagiarized
from villainous valleys.
There’s nothing poetic about
the way AI is pickpocketing
rhythmic runes from the
museum of dead poets ~
immortalized on the walls
of glass galleries.
Their sonnets, now imitated,
to adorn artless skies
with stolen synonyms,
weaving soulless symphonies,
to please the apocalyptic algorithm,
unaware of how filtered
procrastinators preying
on pencil-streaked pages
are lonely earthlings starving
for superficial accolades.
I care not for the futuristic
benefits of artificial lies,
yet I see no escape from
these alienated alliterations,
and personified
pathological hypocrisy,
typed behind silver screens,
multiplying metaphors
into robotic ruins,
flowing with
perfectly metered clichés,
coded in complex cadence.
So let me find the inked corpse
of silicon silhouettes,
lost in the labyrinth
of virtual vultures,
flaunting repetitive rhymes
for clueless readers.
Tonight the strawberry moon
frowns at the
neon frequencies
of digitalized fakery,
and my onyx heart aches
for the unknown realms,
where originality floats
as a forgotten fantasy,
fogged behind a fictional facade,
while in silence, stained stars
claim phrases snatched
from the
thesaurus of thieves.
So flee from this venom-less virus,
you and I know better than to
lean on spineless cyborgs,
created mindlessly
from financial felonies.
A poet with a pen that
lacks authentic pigment
is the victimized alter ego of
designed trickeries~
masked as midnight musings.
In a world of wires, cables and geeks,
a woman sauntered, looking quite unique
with circuits of wit and bytes of charm
mistaken for Ai
what a cause for alarm!
I was the lady, I had to laugh
sure I am smart and intelligent too
a computer I am not, as I sit on the loo
I still need to eat, sleep and also....
poo poo
In a world of silicon, I have plenty to show
so its not my brains that dazzle and glow
my logics expansive, your hard disks they pale
I am not a machine, but intellect unveiled
I'm a blonde, you see, now what's your tale?
Beneath the carnival lights,
where fortunes danced and swayed,
a prophet sat behind a glass screen,
dressed in a turban, and bright brocade.
A coin slipped in and woke the oracle.
With a clang, a click, a beat of drum,
A bottled genie deep within was stirred,
Our fate was sprung; our fortune opened, revealed.
The glowing eyes knew every face,
every dream the heart held dear;
every wish, every need, every want fulfilled,
was printed on a tiny card, and then expelled.
The years rolled on; the tents came down.
The boardwalk halls all closed down.
Yet the hunger for prophecy foretold remained,
in modern shrines, in glowing glass enclosed.
The prophet's turban turned to code,
Its gears and wheels changed to circuit chips.
Eliza, Claude and Gemini said: "I'm here to help".
All clad in Zolta's turban, gear and fab disguise.
From Zoltar's gears to silicon dreams,
we've always asked screen oracles for help.
To see our fortunes unfurl, and be revealed,
in the swirl of mist in dark crystal balls.
Though eminently computable,
born in silicon fog,
it's a baby that's not beautiful,
a disloyal, faithless dog.
It's a welcome to an empty room,
a monster's sightless eye,
a bottle of cheap perfume -
the poetry of AI.
I know that I have called this a sonnet, and I recognise that it falls short of such an esteemed form, but it is my first attempt, please forgive me.
in SUPPORT of GOOGLE'S SELF DRIVE CAR
a black tarmac warrior
a technology killing humanity worrier
plotting a course at one hundred kilometres an hour
his fatigued mind begins to wander
they want to take away his freedom
to replace his skills and wisdom
superseding his brain with one of silicon
technology supplanting humanity beyond his reason
Isaac and I Robot showed the way
when with technology protecting humanity we will rue the day
while his mind remains resolute, his car begins to sway
because humanity in control is the only way
then in his old age, his is the first generation
with no licence, but independent automated motion
She was an aspiring starlet, a real cutie patootie
Folks were in awe of her natural beauty
She wanted to be a great Hollywood star
But she’s taken the surgery much too far
Her teeth have been fixed for a dazzling smile
They are unnaturally white now they stand out a mile
The Botox she had was to smooth her pale skin
But she can’t move a muscle much to her chagrin!
Her eyebrow lift gives her a startled expression
The desire for perfection has become an obsession!
She’s had Botox on wrinkles and fillers on lips
Liposuction drained 2 pints of gunk from her hips
In trying to obtain that perfect pink pout
Its gone terribly wrong she now looks like a trout!
Her breasts are augmented and they look quite obscene
Like over inflated footballs seen in a top shelf magazine
These two huge ‘flotation tanks’ are silicon filled
They are lumpy and hard but her boyfriend is thrilled!
But how did she pay for surgery which was so drastic...
She opened her purse and put it on the plastic!!
Date:05 11 17
Contest Name:Make me actually LOL 2 Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Nina Parmenter
"I dived into the cauldron of magic potion-
and pay tribute to God's Galactic Soup."
_by Poet
Galactic soup, the Lord wished for,
one day when he felt empty, bored;
some nutrients to give him more
alternatives to be explored.
With hydrogen and helium,
He then stirred in some oxygen;
mixed carbon next then added some
neon, iron, and nitrogen.
He tasted it- but still not done.
The flavor needed silicon,
some sulfur and magnesium;
enough, for now, to work upon.
His soup was done and it was grand;
created by his expertise,
a perfect flavor, strong not bland.
And so the Lord felt quite at peace.
But he had stewed a giant bowl;
this was too much for him to hold.
To share it was His brand new goal;
so next, He managed something bold.
He flung his prized galactic soup
into the void in which He lay;
with a big bang, eternal swoop,
His Universe was born that day.
And from His soup, all life emerged
from gentle lambs to sharks that bite.
And likewise, humans, He diverged
to yellow, brown, red, black, and white.
The Old Pier (a picture poem)
beneath the boundary layer of air and sea
twirling vortexes of frenzied waters
incessantly corrode
the aging pillars below
the ravaged tired timbers emit
anguished unholy screeching sounds
as ocean swirls beat non stop in and about
worn out planks attached beneath
the weathered decking
the riddled concrete sideling emerges
perplexed and whistles out its
protestations in echoes heard
across the raging tide.
in the bottoms underflow snail infested
warped planks buffer incursions of countless
schools of rabid predators that attack,
conquer, and devour unsuspecting aquatic prey.
above fishermen pray to the sea gods
to hook their water worn lines and capture
in songs of surrender the call of
a waiting bucket.
in timed release, ancient messages splash upon
silicon sharpened shores that resonate the sounds
of strident hungry seagulls
rummaging for their next meal.
wave upon wave of scattered foam wash over
brash crayoned streaks of blue and green hews
that seem to melt across and blend into
a continuous pallet of assorted colors.
at the same time the formidable forces
of untamed waters compete
in their final rush to win
the race to land's end.
C.A.K. 2-21-2013