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OOPS: I ACCIDENTALLY THE HOLE SONNET
Like all good tales, this one began! Not under sail, nor farming tans... I'd seen that man, (about my dog), and found firm footing in a bog. She wasn't there, but -- everywhere; Gills or wings would be no help. Nor audiences, as you learned from Delp. My spacetime, just: adjust, or tear. Perhaps she hears, or reads, or counts my words while them cardinals, counts, and overlords lord over the seven seas where Musa sails away on the MC Memora "Ahhhhh, GIRL!", (as Johnnie cried) ... well he cried and cried and up and died; or "BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH" as Johnnie said, when that shmuck missed that other one's head. The story's yours, but not for you! (all you need'za to be bru tay too)
These are some notes recovered from an old pad by the name of "Google Keep"; since I trust those ramparts about as much as beer farts, let's back up to an even more mysterious cloud!
2016-04-10 untitled so tree
sirocco rpt autocorrupt the phone alone falls only from the throne how now plow cow?
how about a nice game of AlphaDrama (a game for one humanity (autocorrupt: bullshitter))?
I'd play with myself, but I don't yet know the rules of theoretical play well enough to sing a solo songalong
- 2016-04-10 Digital Fortress
This is what you should never build yourself; the day you become wealthy enough to need one, you hire the best opsec guy in your network to build it not-for-but-with you. Building it yourself is a challenging exercise, worth your time for the lessons you'll get, but should never be regarded as battle-ready tech.
The fortress consists of maximally inspectable hardware, and double-compiled software. The fortress contains no key loggers, and all packets are sniffed before exit.
Such beautiful silence, at the hour you could only choose as twelve... confirming what before you only thought you knew: this task was for an elf! But you let prosody get your betters, and fell again from the highest cliffs. Aah well, life isn't all buts nor ifs.
- 2016-04-11 Enter Archman
Daunted by the full scope of the task ahead, once it'd finally hit him, he inhaled slowly, nostrils hugging tight to his septum till they nearly made one fleshy mass, then fluttering apart as he whistled out his newly-relaxed surprise: "Coo!"
The most difficult part of predictive authorship lies in determining, before the words have been etched, into which (whinceth?) medium - a question spanning memory, security, audience, prestige, self-image... the works.
- 2016-04-20 Gallows Stall
there's a wondrous adolescent joy about calling just to hear a friend's voice; not a ring-wrong-ditch, but a brief chinwag, to hear the surprised joy on the other end, even catch a whiff of it yourself. That's a just use of the tech, playing on the social buttons of hearing familiar voices to elicit emotion... yet like any weapon, no degree of safety nor training can ever prevent it from one day swinging the wrong way, slamming shut on an innocent tail.
- 2016-06-13 Burned Manuscript
This is not my story, I'm just the unfortunate wretch charged by fate, misfortune, to tell it, to beat the odds and bear the news of our victory. Setting out, unknowing the end, only the message received, the word to pass, of the victory achieved at Marathon.
This is not your flood, nor your blood. This is not your scene, nor your dream. It's a waking life, all day aware, never afraid, never too scared. This is the first day of the rest of your strife.
Virtuous machine learning: self-image deciding recognizing fraud detection for p2p makers. redefine spam!
- 2018-09-25 Irony, Man!
Not a quarter after "Gallows Stall", this one dude hung himself in the shower using his clinic-issued pajamas as rope. Life finds a way - even one out.
(cum apologia papae)
Now I send me out to ride... trust the Lord protect my hide; If it gets lost in a far-off land: I trust my steed to cope unmanned; and if I find some garbage cute: please forgive my smash and loot. Should I swallow a suspect weevil? Brace yourself to purge that evil! Forgive my calling grapeshot puts, (I hope that won't cost me a foot) but if I die in a combat zone: gather what's left and ship it home. And if I die of likely cause, let me lie and hold your applause.
Pop taught me: to think Ma land: how to sew mine fields Lots to think about!
This will not be a lucid post, yet not quite "S-o-C" either. The system must be laid out clearly, for any interested child to decipher with the assistance of a bored yet educational adult (or at least, adult-ascendant), yet they should not need the use of any tooling other than deft hands, and perhaps a jeweller's loupe (or one of those magnifying glasses from the olde dictionaires, the kind they just don't make anymore).
Who is the audience? As a writer on vacation from the stage, or an actor cut off from the scheduler's queue, I am not the one to answer that question. Perhaps you, Dear Reader, are a member of that illustrious category, or at least aware of its existence, identity, form, or functional; mine pleasure would be all encompassing should you inform me of its return value under the simplest fixed-point process, yet I try not to delude myself that truth can be so easily raped from the bowels of our shared simulator.
When is the now? You may glance upwards, recall your Catholic Consensus Clockology, and see that there are no more days left for this message to be broadcast from this window so fictitious as to elicit week-long street-orgies of public-drunkenness -- a grand time, indeed! Yet perhaps not the one appropriate for so clear a message, no, that's why the speaker is muffled, the meaning so shuffled, the rules bent and twisted prose so far that even before the first key stroked, hands knew to tag it "verse".
... ...awake or just a guest at my own wake to spite the cold I play for playing's sake from bottles cut a river flows of sake ...lest we drink our silly way to taki touch more than just black and white they said you play all day from fear you'll wake up dead here now I stay at last that day is past when loved ones see a final smile aghast let's wager there's another way to say ol' Woland dallies when collecting pay smiling like a Cheshire, B cries: "words!? my tongue's curved forkature beats nurbs!" who could even dare to claim to write a fitting battle tribute song tonight
Sing to me, O Muse, not of her that slipped past, down the streetside path to God-knows-where yet here, always, forever, like the track star: gone yet never left (or from another frame, nothing but!)
Sing to me, O Muse, not of future's solvent, buffering that unmeasured measurable, mind's undustable mirror image, introducable yet never reproducable;
Sing to me, O Muse, not of idiots forgettable in days so-ber as to make mules mate...
Sing with me, for I'm losing my only voice.
Since I spend too much time editing, instead of publishing, and I edit too much in the mind, instead of on the page (whether paper, web, or virtual), the risk runs real of simply losing ideas to those natural shocks that make cowards of us all - just witness the day-score since my last post! - I'll thus publish at the very least this crumb collection:
- Power and Pseudonymity
- Value and Mutability
- The Sound of Thought
- Those Ills We Have
- The Name of Action
- The Dream of Time
- The Point of Aim
- The Game of Life
- Cultivating Man
though order lies within the list above you'll find it came not from the voice within the eye adjusted till its needs were met and fingers catered to its every whim then lacking substance in so short a post the poster went in search of rhyming words no reason for each sentence to begin no season for the fleeting life of birds when writing sonnets, some will follow form they rhyme in alternation, of a muse others from God inspiration take such clever, much despicable - a ruse! yet here is found Umberto's key to fame I speak of her, yet do not say her name