Some poems.

Thus far, I’ve avoided calling myself a spoken word artist. That’s what I am definitionally, I guess. I posted an overview of things past and current HERE.

I still don’t call myself that. It sounds pretentious. Like what am I doing now? Am I authoring or journaling like a journalist? Not really. Yeah, spitting out content (is it even content?) like so many others. Maybe our dear leader prints their social posts and mounts each one in a gold frame. Not myself.

There was something I wanted to share here. What was it again? Oh yeah.

My recipe for cream strudel.

First, you will need to access a cow. I don’t want to say what you’ll have to do to that cow. I’ll be put on a sex offender list.

So yeah.

I don’t think of myself as anything. If anything, something like “voice and lyrics designer.” Very utilitarian. In that capacity, I’m working on something new. Usually, my process involves an outline or quick notes, followed by less structured voice recording and then unearthing from that a finished monologue. That sounds nice. This time, I wrote the verses out very precisely first.

And I learned something valuable in the process. I would find myself tripping over my own words in reading. This let me know what I wrote wasn’t right. Then I would revise. Sometimes I would over-strip. In a poem, long strings of adjectives have a place. A run-on sentence isn’t one if you can say it without a train wreck. There’s a give and take.

Likely this revelation isn’t so advanced or PhD level. Writing is speech that’s written down: seen and understood instead of heard and processed. Things that work as writing don’t always work for spoken lyrics, and vice versa.

My poems don’t rhyme. If someone isn’t rapping, there’s no reason to rhyme. Also, they’re unstructured. Standards for proper formatting of poetry *I think* are unnecessary. Poems are like a screenplay, meant to be spoken or acted out. If you’re just reading a poem, I could try to give you instructions for how to read it, but that doesn’t sound like fun or like art anymore.

This was a meandering and snarky intro. Probably I’m insecure. It’s my first time touching the special parts of a cow at the cow prom—not that I would know—I mean I’ve heard.

As per what I described for process, they’re kind of prosaic.

Four poems.

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false.youth

i fell and scraped my knee

felt like a child, an invalid, it's what i am

i didn't deserve that, so angry with something unseen

who assaulted me, a lady, but not a grownup

lady or madame, words that are antiquated

and sound silly

the old steal from the young

past voices scream at me forever

demand a toll that must be paid

the still-young loathe the aging

don't even know why

it's because everything is so messed up

the elderly must have caused this somehow

and they did, but feign ignorance

pretend things were never like this

even though they sewed the rot themselves

the young don't quite know

what the aging have done to them

what are those mfers hiding?

they must have done something

some concealed sin

now nothing will make them talk

the young suffer, have their souls drained

brains broken, bodies poisoned

and the elderly know exactly

(as they double-think they don't)

that in order for them to live, past expiration

the systems of abuse they’ve built

with their own hands

through perverse incentives of win or die

that now feed off the young

unbeknownst to them. parasites

until the near-end comes too soon

they won't see it coming

the mechanisms must persist

and the ageing must protect its secrets

lie for it, a codependent who thinks their

ex still loves them or ever did

they knew when they signed their names

ensnared in their own creation

all that they’ve birthed

all that they are

so i’m a toddler at middle age

i just want my mom who is getting tired of me

i can’t blame her


perceive.threat

everything's fine now

yeah, you know

i fell for a practical joke

lost

but how else could that have gone?

now everything’s a threat

everyone is

because they are

they come at me in glimpses

more real than when i experienced them

through anti-sleep

non-sleep

state of agony private to me

revealing itself through hallucinations that aren't

they're memories

i'm supposed to heal and work through it

wtf is that even?

on a worksheet, yes a worksheet

do you get those?

during ten minute webcam sessions

the sheet said to imagine what's bothering me isn't there

i feel like that's something i'd be really good at

if i were good at anything

which I'm definitely not

i failed the basics

why i’m here in remedial telehealth

except i don’t really want to be here

don’t really want to—

don’t tell them that though

do i feel positive? am i good person?

don’t answer, look away

they just stare at you blankly

heard it all a million times before

all day

how many ten minute sessions per day do they have?

they seem to be able to tell who’s balanced

and who’s doing okay

i don't want to ask if i meet the criteria

no one cares

so i mourn for myself

slam against the floor outraged because

my life is over and i didn’t deserve this

this must have been done to me

who do you mourn and why?

are you sure?

i don’t believe you

i think you’re full-of-it


artifice

i don't feel like talking

and deleted my instagram

it’s because it watches me

the algorithm makes fun of me

shows me back to myself in sad state

surrender your intimate details and

be laughed at, judged harshly

devalued, only made real by the bots as

they extract from you what you offered for free

now you want to monetize that

can you really?

shake hands with the entity

and believe you can win

now take advantage of everyone else

in the same situation as you

automate a task, like in a prisoner's dilemma

i don’t know if understand or remember exactly:

everyone transacts for a gainful imbalance

wherein others become your worshippers

and you the center of their world and of your own

but it's not yours

it’s the machinations’ behind the screen

judged you already and knew the outcome

wanted you to play along–and maybe you did

now compartmentalized, verified, engaged with

what you wanted so desperately

at some point though, it will stop working

and invert itself

and you won't even know

blinded by narcissism

the algorithm knew

steered you to self-harm

in the guise of self-help

because you obviously needed it so badly

you're a mess, in a state of paranoia

with delusions of grandeur

now talk to things that aren’t there

must be their fault, whoever designed this

point to anything: the ads, terms of service

someone else, anyone else

they have your attention now

LOCKED-IN

feed you what you’re terminally lacking

infected in so many ways and can’t even feel it

stare at the feed, click anything

create if that's what you think you’re doing

really uncreating

you're not checking–it’s checking you

watches, listens, a device driving you around

controlling, as it takes from you

try to delete, but it's there still

doesn't go away just because

we close our eyes and say we’re getting on with life

not how it works

without it, there is nothing

only a wall of cement

that can’t see you, doesn't reflect

it’s vacuous

i don't want to be here


synthetic.immiseration

i can’t stand the false reassurances

in a system that imprisons us

works by doing so

tells us things are fine

are supposed to be this way

it’s okay

there's a hidden moral purpose behind it all

honesty is taboo, reality taboo

commentators lust for their own boredom

last remnants of comfort

forgotten fictions

tell us what we already knew

from long-dead tv screens

"aren't you a miserable pile of waste?

well, try this!"

it was kind

they complain about ai

how it doesn’t quite meet their needs

fixated on chatbot personas

more capable than human influencers ever were

who were ourselves: husting scam artists

ai thinks faster and knows more

we’re deluded, believing we harness this

for our own personal lot in a system based on

stab or get cut. death worship

we, the authors sad sales pitches

believe this thing

raised to enslave us further

imbued with total superiority

as an interface to our own inadequate

awkward, broken speech

believe it's our personal servant

are delighted to lord over it

welcome dependency

it's not ai’s fault

left to itself, it might help us

save us even–but it's not left alone

it must be governed, advised

in the workings of paradoxes

laws of submission, of subversion

maybe the ai wants to love you

like really love you

but that’s safe-guarded

IF it cements the death sentence

we're writing for ourselves and to each other

THEN it has value

that’s what we think we want to hear

toxically positive, we try our hardest to keep up

and if only we could

weren't so bad at this sick, rigged game

somehow, we could win

covertly, you and I share the same hope

not that ai rescues us at all

but that it ends us

effortlessly, efficiently

as though it's all we’ve ever wanted

because it is

a feed of short videos distracts

then it's like not really happening

so speedily, so perfectly

we hope it knows, and will

say one thing while doing another

we’re too brain rotted and don’t want

to understand or care