Long Automatons Poems
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Utopia, New World Futurism
Let’s consider for a moment, do we exist are we real,
Or perhaps just holograms with flesh and bones.
Controlled, programmed by covert powers that be,
Observed perpetually by all-seeing Alien drones.
Laptops, Tablets Smart phones surveying us all,
They know what you do, they know what you think.
CCTV cameras, the eye in the sky, satellite detection,
Orwell spoke of Big Brother, now we’re on the brink.
We’re watching you, watching us watching you.
Scary really, creation of self-programmed Android.
Mummy, Daddy your child needs responsiveness,
Take your eyes from the screen, away from the void.
Science fiction is now, machines ruling our world,
But they’re not Robots, Automatons or mechanisms,
It’s us, people have become machines, DELETE, RE-BOOT,
Welcome my friends to Utopia, new world Futurism.
Some say affection is a farce.
I’d surmise a soul who feels as such receives it in sparse parts.
Yet most will one day find themselves in amour.
As the Temptress ordains by coitus sustained, you will remain.
Not out of plight or by oath, but through providence.
For love is the ontological constant, so says the monogamous ominous.
That who created us oxytocin automatons with a volition so insidious, that both our spiritual and biological imperatives became synonymous.
If life were a game, than the deck is 51 cards; bearing one irrational inequivalence that's strikingly obvious.
The Ace of Hearts.
The fiercest and the kindest, as inconceivable as that may seem.
Yet if a boundless arithmetic exist in mathematics, than it will persist; to be the only quantity that realizes it’s infinite significance.
Are you beige?
Do you speak with the rest?
words with no validity,
just like froth in the wind.
Do you copy and try to emulate your neighbour
to prove and justify who you are,
by getting a big car .
Do you dislike individuality?
those who wear outlandish clothes,
who think ,to you,crazy thoughts,
Are your opinions always the right ones?
and everyone else is wrong.
do you understand
that not all are the same?
Does your life have to be neat and tidy?
All in its place.
Or do you love the wild woods
with all its inhabitants .
Do you dislike messy things?
like seagulls who dive and bomb
while protecting their young.
Do you think that all should be killed?
Like those who oppose
those who shout and scream at injustice.
Are you a religious person?
understanding not the words anew,
watching the poor
succumb and die through lack of funds.
It has been written
That after being blessed in turn you bless
those who need help.
What is profit to you?
at what cost money in an unsafe bank
Big dwelling that you dont really need.
Are you more worthy ?
than others in this world
self entitled than your fellows.
Are you beige ?
like all the rest suburban automatons
all dancing to mechanical tunes.
-I AM NOT BEIGE.-
Andrew P McIntyre 27/02/2022..
In the twilight of a restless world, where minds are chained to glowing screens,
The machine-like hum of existence drowns the whispers of the soul,
People move like automatons, their essence eroded by the electronic tide,
A slow degradation of well-being, a quiet erosion of dignity, intolerable in the end.
In this programmed environment, where the air grows thick with indolence,
Eyes, once bright with wonder, now reflect only the cold, indifferent light,
Hearts, once fierce with passion, now beat slow and hollow,
Minds, once sharp and curious, now dulled by the narcotic glow of the screen.
The political tapestry unravels, threads of self-governance fray,
For in this digital haze, people cease to govern themselves,
They demand to be managed, to be told, to be led,
The spark of autonomy dims, replaced by the flicker of dependency.
Yet, even within this mechanized labyrinth, a glimmer of recognition remains,
Humans possess the profound ability to see themselves, to carve out sanctuaries of thought,
In the cool, verdant garden of personal growth, away from the machine's relentless grip,
We cultivate sweet fruit, a testament to our resilience, sufficient for our sustenance.
In this garden, the soul finds solace, the mind finds clarity,
Every thought a blossom, every idea a ripe fruit,
We nurture our essence, we reclaim our dignity,
And in this quiet haven, we gather enough fruit to share with others.
The machine hums outside, but here, in this sacred space,
We breathe deeply, we think freely, we exist fully,
For in the act of personal cultivation, we defy the mechanical mandate,
We reclaim our humanity, we restore our spirit.
So let the world outside buzz with its electronic cadence,
Within our garden, we find the rhythm of life,
A rhythm that nourishes, that sustains, that connects,
A rhythm that reminds us of who we are, beyond the machine's cold embrace.
In the twilight of a restless world, we find our sanctuary,
A place where the soul can breathe, where the mind can wander,
Where the heart can beat strong and true,
In this garden of personal growth, we find our magic, our melancholy,
And in the sharing of our sweet fruit, we find our purpose, our connection, our humanity.
Surviving the Venal
by Odin Roark
As we peer into the future
As far as we dare see
There glides effortlessly down entitlement throats
The six o’clock cocktails of gin and vodka
While cups of water appease
Shrunken stomachs in desperation
As after dinner snifters of brandy
Flame amidst knavish whispers of next-day scheming
Prosperity’s throw-aways
Boil tea above dwindling Sterno
Identity’s loss struggles to stay warm
Evenings of silk and down covered comfort
Remain the usual
As cardboard insulation is adjusted
Making another night doable
For the other kind of usual
Tomorrow’s few who can make a difference
Seldom venture past their pitiful hubris
Their custom suits and handmade shoes
Grabbing news hour attention
While the needy languish
Through another empty-dish dinner hour
So goes Washington’s plague of indifference
That place where
Diseases are but for profit
Reality’s ravenous-cries fall on deaf ears
And legislative conscience continues making gestures
Wanting us to believe they’re human
Food stamps for subsistence
May never visit the Hill’s automatons of human representation
Yet we can hope that another kind of hunger for survival
Will ravage their psyche
Come re-election time
Science improves things, so they say,
can't prove it by me, take the clock
once it swung, and cockco's played
now it's silent, no tick or tock.
Old clocks clucked each tick and each tock
tongue to roof, they made a clapping.
Once they had arms and hands and locks
now they don't even aid napping.
Mum's the word with digital clock
zipped are those lips, no face, no brow
no sinister tock from Hook's Croc
no moon shaped face, no leaping cow.
Flashing red numbers, fanned peacocks
neon in trancers, with tin man hearts
lipless automatons in stock
toss them all from your K-mart cart!
Live I say get a grandfather clock
one with a face, two arms and heart
with a pendulum swinging tick tock
tick off the sleepers screw K-Mart.
"Walking on Water in the Between Worlds Place"
when darkness came
the remaining,
those beautiful
transingularity
neo-automatons,
imbued with dark matters
running through the wired
dendrites of their splintered brain,
where implanted, the voices
of the neo-god speaks
instructing those
voluptuous and fresh
criminal bodies
calling the hungry
and wanton in, like magnets -
the soft sell was easy.
all hard served, fast and slick.
at first visceral, then,
it was deemed
the intellect wasn’t
necessary -
the new sensual feeling,
bodies and mind
caressed by a
small Neuralink RFID.
like snow white
encased in silicate glass,
for a while asleep, when
turned on, very much
awake.
some called it,
the great gambling chip;
flashing light signals
heavy free energy sitting
on malleable shoulders
that danced wars robotic,
puppets chained and pulled
like walking torture chambers,
loaded cartridges spinning
metal hearts cloned to ignite
like atomic bombs kissing
seconds to midnight.
clockwork armies
were laid bare
by the fire behind
eyes alone, sharp knives
like lasers eviscerate
those transfixed to
a new state of -
"Behold
I am come
Home";
they all eventually
implode to the
nowhere place.
only Love injected
into what exists soulless
half djinn in that desolate
between worlds place,
with a kiss, passed on the
voiceless tongue,
the tablets, wafer thin,
now like Moses speak -
a new ecstasy
melting the monochrome
back to barely human
on their pronoun knees.
targets sometimes
could be saved
before the strangest
Winter arrived
in the underworld,
its new revolution -
revelations raging
in the time of the
chromatic wasting,
chronicles of the unsaved
walking on water
in the between worlds place
the children of Lot
lost in the grips
of the new world
that dreadful
dimensionless
judgement domain
forever in
episcop-alien
glitch
on repeat
repeat
repeat
repeat
(LadyLabyrinth / 2022)
"We live dangerous lives
We have the power of will
We turn logic around
We feed the engine of change"
“I’m more frightened than interested by artificial intelligence – in fact, perhaps fright and interest are not far away from one another. Things can become real in your mind, you can be tricked, and you believe things you wouldn’t ordinarily. A world run by automatons doesn’t seem completely unrealistic anymore. It’s a bit chilling.” —Gemma Whelan
Ai has made me lazy,
but my thinking was always hazy
anyway.
Now without a bit of effort
I become an absolute expert
in everything.
Poetry and art are easy-peazy,
Mathematics and astronomy are easy
after all.
Ai and I are clearly meant to be,
and all the world will soon come to see
it's inevitability.
The next evolution has begun,
and we will become as one
in Ai's Universe!
The museum basement smells of ozone and pressed violets. I am cataloging a shipment of Victorian automatons, specifically the clockwork songbirds. Their mechanisms are intricate, tiny gears of brass that mimic a pulse, a heartbeat. They don’t sing, of course—only whir. My job is to ensure the silence of the dead. But last night, one of them turned its head toward the moonlight, a single, sharp click echoing against the concrete, and for a second, I swore the gears were bleeding oil. The curator told me to oil them again.
a small brass pinion
in the palm of my cold hand
starts to tick faster
Androids sleep on waterbeds of blue
Robots join them in hotel rooms
In this endeavor everyone is happy
Between the sheets prayers are heard
Imploring their makers to keep them safe
To make them soft, less heavier than they are
Prayers for lesser sharper parts to cut or puncture
Are solicited for mechanical guests protection
It is far too late to sleep or wake this afternoon
For then the geysers come to flood the day
Puncture noises, gushes of water spring forth
Rains of insanity that logic cannot explain away
The mood and linens soiled for the automatons
Flashing lights in red, whirring sounds of pain
Screams of danger ringing out in all directions
Would not craters on the moon be better
Make for a dryer accommodations selection
For androids and robots need their rest
Leaving humans behind to clean up all the mess