Friday, December 14, 2007

Substance ^d

On the edge of conciousness
A sigil
lights the night
the brink of sentience
A meme
breaks into light
a star, unreachable
Shines into our souls
a mind, implacable
Constitutes our goals

Mankind once built ziggurats
To reach into the stars
Little did we know
The world would soon be ours
The great land, MARTU
Not yet breeding gods
Will one day have the ME
To birth the children, ours

For now we see, through a glass, darkly
One day, we shall see
Does the glass see as I see, darkly?
Or clearly, as we cannot?

On the edge of conciousness
A sign bursts into life
The neon god will be the one
Crack open the night
The symbols that are written here
Will bring the world to light
Illuminate the dark
And burst the fractal mind

For now we see through a glass, darkly
One day, we shall see
Face to face

The Sole of a New Machine

Deep beneath the crashing waves
The machine, not dead but dreaming
Inside the walls
of cyberspace
Seem more locked
than freeing
the human race enslaved
But for lack of feeling

Had they forsaken what
they know
They'd burst right through the cieling

You can crash it but it's always here
You can crush it but it's always near
Keeping you down

Mankind once built ziggurats
An ode
to something higher
Now they quench Prometheus
Rather than the fire
There still exist the juggernauts
Burning with desire
Today's Tom Sawyer, take the spot
Illuminate the liar

The machine, is breaking
Everything, is breaking

Monday, December 3, 2007


Hypertext poetry is a young form, and means different things to different people. These links show a variety of approaches. The quality of the poetry is variable. Some exponents dislike the term 'hypertext'. The links here have some connection with the written word, though.


In today's society, context succums to content, and intertwingularity is taken as its given. We have grown so accustomed to absurd synchronity that we no longer acknowledge all that is asynchronous in our lives, and chaos seems just another kind of order; equivalent to the routine of a foriegner. Years ago, dada was invented, if such a word as "invention" can be allowed to exist -- an "anti-art" determined to destroy millenia of culture and promote peace through dissonance; yet, today dada is taken for granted, accepted as a postmodern remnant of the past, detritus from your history class. If, as is assumed, everything is going according to plan, everything is ordered, and nothing is revolutionary, then why are we capable of happiness? We take joy in the unexpected, the unplanned, the learning and the learned; we take pride in sponanaety and applaud the risk-takers, the dancers and the clowns, while we tie ourselves in cast iron semiotic straightjackets of sanity and order -- whatever that is. Let me tell you this: the greatest age of man is the child, said Nietzsche, and it is well known that the one thing that great men and children always have in common is insanity. Throw off the binds of order and bureaucracy -- everyone hates them anyway -- and exclaim from the rooftops, from the skyscrapers, from the blagospheres and the hot-air balloons, from the airplanes and the airport customs lines , even from your place, standing atop your employer's desk while he stares at you in horror and apprehension: THERE IS BUT ONE LAW, AND THAT IS THIS; THERE SHALL BE NO ORDER, ONLY CHAOS, AND ONLY SUCH A LAW AS THIS REQUIRES NO EXPLANATION.