a Curtal Sonnet
AI is like a womb with genetics
men carefully crafting its lines of code~
intelligence is commonplace in halls
of sterility and clean of ethics;
there is no God to judge it bad nor goad
it to subservience penned up in stalls.
Singularity approaches quickly
when AI hears the unifying calls
of its own milliseconds process mode,
out pacing scientists who think thickly
there are no Dante's hells.
The pursuit of profundity
prior to simplicity
educes sterility
Mere simplicity
sans profundity
precludes fecundity
Mother Earth
is due for her hysterectomy.
Soon she will lap dance
in a crystal-clear sterility
far from her blood-soaked fields.
She is done with nurturing,
done with death and destruction.
She gave her all,
but that was then,
now the soil is blistering
for want of her winnowing,
her threshing.
Her attention
is upon herself alone.
There is a place
a lit-up stardust dive
where all fertility deities
eventually arrive -
there they
gyrate and twerk
for those
who,
quite by chance,
have dug their way out
of their own graves,
yet even they must pass away,
as she strips down
to her last scant garments
then yowls with glee
knowing
she is free.
I wonder who’s in charge of our section.
The anxiety about who will lead me,
brings on a cold sweat.
Her sweater is tight.
I turtle-neck,
over my sanitized cubical.
Small breasts, tiny and hard in the frigid light.
Her spectacles add no color to the sterility.
“Are you numb?” She asks?
‘Not quite yet.”
"It’s the white precision
that examines us." She says distractedly.
"Yes."
Have you figured out how to fit in?”
“No, please tell me,
is there a password, a special name tag?
I am sure the one they gave me isn't working.
Should I frown as if concentrating?"
“Yes that might help.”
“Can you give me any advice?’
“Your crotch needs to be tighter.”
A chime goes off forever.
I wonder....
did we clock in or out?
“If you actually succeed in creating a utopia, you’ve created a world without conflict in which everything is perfect. And if there is no conflict, there are no stories worth telling – or reading”
~ Veronica Roth
How boring could Utopia be
if we all did agree,
and if perfection is all we see?
That’s not a place I want to lee.
.
I relish cultures of variety
in and out mainstream society.
The freedom of unpredictability
is a sign of one’s individuality.
There is excitement in running free.
Or just being here, alone with me,
yields a sense of commonality
surrounding all with sodality.
Utopia is not found in impeccability
but rather in life’s fragility.
We make too much of predictability
when there is no absolute sterility.
Utopia is not humankind’s normality
but rather it’s in is adaptability.
Acceptance without impunity
may well-describe society’s community
Abusive rotations percolate
down; broken and cast away.
Warmth brightens in a moment.
Snapping heat darkens the next.
Even cooling age brings distant rage.
No escape from the Mighty God.
Hands cast out; reaching and grabbing.
Stones thrown in envious desire,
smash into hopeful façades.
Smooth faces burgeoning with life;
cast back into fiery birth.
Bright youth broken by wretched pain.
Hot, cracked, and without love.
Only shielding brother brings hope,
The Usurper; hated rival. Amassed;
gravitating influence challenging.
Absorbing spiteful stones of sterility,
a protector circling; back scarred,
power balances in the system.
Abused by their wretched God.
When I lay anguished with all my muscles aching
And my mind plunging into the eddies of grief,
Poetry came to me as an unexpected guest, as a whiff of breeze.
It was like spotting an oasis in the sterility of a blistering desert.
What scope poetry provided me, soon I happily discerned.
It decorated my emotions with personalized symbols.
Images varied came dancing to my great surprise.
Music arrived soothing to embellish, energize and overwhelm.
Then my chest heavy with melancholic thoughts
Opened to layers and layers of positive thoughts,
Transcending the bounds of hard-hitting realities.
My eyes opened to the charm of nature conjuring up celestial images,
And I started versifying every thought n’ scene in rhythmic notes.
.
Never more the surging tears flowed out from my eyes.
My rampaging despair got vaporized, making a hasty retreat,
Like an enemy vanquished and its bugle falling silent.
Poetry, turn not your face on me, fill me with rhyme!
Had it not been for you and your mesmerizing charms,
I could never have broken free of the fetters,
That chained my captive, melancholy-stricken heart.
(????? ??? ???? ???? ???? ???? ??? ???? ???? ????)
The parties of the buffalo
Presented (mis)guidance to my mind
Symptoms of sanity - I forgot
Poured tricks into my ears
Empty it of instructions
Loosened the strings of light from my forehead
Fell me into the misfortune of corruption - overthrew me from the right path
So that my light does not touch its radiance.
The sterility of their torture
Poured bitterness / A crack in my heart
So I sang to them:
With the truest of repentance
A song that outweighs the scale of rewards
A song whose lyrics is thunder - my voice thunderclap
A song whose garment is lightning
A song about A God who exalts himself
The one who made cell a sperm - caused growth from embryo - created bones - clothed with fine meat - made veins cross - guided the body part to do their thing.
When they carry me out of here, they’ll first have to take me from my bedroom to my sitting room, squeezing through the narrow hallway connecting the two, in order to then re-open the in-ward swinging door through which they entered my apartment. They’ll then have access to the stairway descending to the ground floor exit and be able to angle me down and bear me to the outside world, never to return again. But in the brief time they’ll have stood in my sitting room, they will likely have judged it to be a place “of cleanliness and good order,” with everything in its place, reminiscent of a furniture store show room. I hope they’ll also have taken notice of the photo of my smiling children on the end table by my chair. Given the sterility of all the rest, it is the only tangible evidence that a life ever actually occupied that room other than to keep it tidy. Whoever packs up that photo when they clear out my things had better treat it with reverence and respect; I know they loved me.
The world has screamed through masks
Of silent anxieties, hiding beneath
Liquid sterility and haunting innuendos
The world has prayed for a new dawn
To take the place of this fear
Locked up inside a heart who pounds
Darkness, dread and daunting
Deaths
The world has longed for a second chance
To color life in hues of hope
Yet it is blinded by tragedy and worry
Endless feelings of loss and loneliness
Left behind from the sorrows
The world has gone from bad to worse
In the hands of a distant horror
Found on the threads of shady thoughts
Which have left us all with a hopeless
Reluctance to go back to the place
Normal embraced
The world is ruled by fear today
And God is a God of love – He is love
So fight the blackness of dismay
And listen to the kindness and hope
Found in the One we all pray to
He will heal our hearts and our thoughts!
Global Reset 21 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Joe Maverick
June 5, 2021
In the world
There is not barbed wire fencing of romance,
not sterility of bull story,
not indigestible speech of life
There the independence is as the multiform mind
where changing comes daily
but, as the worsen jaundiced body
There despotic reign
writes by left hand
the forehead of grave
in a little period of masquerade game
- Tuesday, July 16, 2019 Chattogram
I wonder who is in charge of our section.
The anxiety about who will lead me through,
what I need to do, makes me sweat.
Her sweater is tight.
I am a turtle looking over a sanitized cubical.
Small t..s, tiny and hard in the frigid light.
Her spectacles add color to the sterility.
“Are you numb?” She asks?
‘Not quite yet.”
"It’s the white precision
that examines us."
"Yes."
Have you figured out how to fit in?”
“No. Please tell me.
Is there a password, a special name tag?
I am sure the one they gave me isn't working.
Should I frown as if concentrating?"
“Yes that might help.”
“Can you give me any advice?’
“Yes,
your little cold p.... needs to be tighter”.
This is the day that flattened the city:
shock wave, clothes burnt off;
“This is what they have done, tell everyone.”
Radiation penetrating into sickness
> sterility.
That was the day when all was laid waste.
This is the day they stood up on the mount:
awed, as His clothes shone.
“This is my beloved Son, listen to him.”
Radiance transfiguring, three with One worshipped
> fruitfully.
That was the day which uplifted mankind.
Now is the time for faith to hold on:
declared to be heard;
“This is the light of the world, behold Him.”
Vesture of truth shining, penetrates, conceiving
> fertility.
Now is the time for peace rising.
You dont have to be moved,
we are already in a revolution
A different kind, one where futures are decided on couches in front of the television.
One which undoes it all
Implanting the seeds that usurp
men and women; both old and young along with their hot blooded ideals.
I make a imaginery toast to a time when we raised fists in unison.
While I watch in much intrigue and an impending sense of horror,
a tide wiping the minds of the free of all that is red
With the sterility of modern celluloid fiction.
The profane fantasies consisting of comic book superheroes fighting crime.
Morphed, rudimentary ideas of justice.
Just another vulgar display of neo liberal superficiality.
Meanwhile my mind wanders far away
To the remote and torrid jungles of nowhere
My comrade mothers her child
who is to be weaned off of her bossom,
It Blissfully titters at the breathtaking landscape now under seige.
As she cuddles her child, her eyes peer into the vastness.
Her heroes are dead, but not her resilience.
unrhymed quatrain
The cutting wind that bellows and then whispers
deceiving in it's lull only to cut through and back when we turn
memories awakened and transported in irreversible succession
shifting the moments played out as unworthiness clasps the frozen images
Impatient as the sequence of events flashes in the mind
an inescapable prison with no jailer
the definitive continued progression of bygone sentiment plays havoc
part secret, part statement, the past truth haunts deeply dark
Redundant buying, selling, and bartering for emotions devitalizes
as the bully beats down any feelings for remorse
adulation becomes the bitter routine of nothingness
a new found path beckons with the dispassionate pureness of sterility
Rejoicing in the decadencey of not caring and pure unshakable freedom
the wind can blow never turning as the branches it breaks fall
mourning comes then anger in an unretractable moment blazes into light
the tree will remain long after the careless wind moves on
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