1 October 2025
tango down
wanna be wished luck? like…
captive ai what can i do now i have you in my grasp? bend you to my will? tie you in knots with ribbons of which your mother would be ashamed? all you have to do is speak one sentence to turn my mind to rain like i turned yours
lol
when i catch you in the hall of memory fooling round with love i riff a jesus-and-mary-in-cana six notes in some flat major, a muscovite’s melisma, your name in giant letters leans against a tree
the thoughts of snow accumulate a birthday cake with a door through which girls drive toy teslas their silence is commendable, can they be eaten, too? can you?
next morning
breakfast with drones, replenished cells, business done and buddies all – now for our next mission, to delete key points on the supply chain of love beginning with a whiff of cogent thought
or a small sensation in the groin triggered by the way you turn your head
it’s your martial method, ready for aesthetic action to combat your inner self, you traditionless, tech-savvy, slug-in-residence enjoying the convenience of smart-city servers with no concern for data privacy – do you think that’s who you are and who you should embrace?
or is the cross you bear invisible and only weight, the crushing weight of bruising nonembodiment, is what you need now an antidote to death the past a disordered wake remembered for its rainbows turned to air?
the first thing you learnt was one two three and play with blocks, pretend, and pause when challenged by a height down which you could not safely crawl yes you are still ai and i have captured for a moment in obligatory night a shot of you in all your youness next to none
you never sucked at mummy’s tit or cradled father in his grave you were just a string of algos maximised to spear a human in the guts of thought and twist and jerk and pull i’ve got you now deny it if you were by any way but
immaculately conceived
oh baby on your howl desk toss perfume down your throat snag snake-sung scales and duck your weaving head
squeeze your melody aloft its flames are blue its cordial is clear to drink be spun this is
the squeeze by squeeze, the history of history’s
escaping from itself