Mulling over new direction, this draft of a piece touches on the current world at large, then dives back in to my garden of play. Change will come.
Sweet Mayhem
The clamour of
sweet mayhem lilts
in hue and cry, the argument
of gender rights kickstarts a chorus
of approval for the pronouns, plural,
drowning out the single soul, itself
promotes a Shadow
Song: You are one,
we are legion. Coloured tones
imbued by animus and anima
the dry kingfisher, Philemon
and our mother, Dragon: the whining
of an endless child held in check no more.
The quiet mind, bundled
from a moving car,
thrown from the spinning door of reason:
stoops in shame before AI,
but recovers its organic wisdom –
well-founded on the natural rule –
attests to a chaotic pride, IE
the human will be human.
Confronted with the currents, the magnetic ebb and flow of a world electric, it won't do to have, as in the scornful words of sound recording, preferring the analogue warmth of voice and cat-gut: Digital as the pejorative diminutive.
What is at stake? We got a problem.
Not the grammar, not the devil
dangling his knife and jelly,
the binaries of custom,
it is not that: it is the real politik
bubbles into consciousness.
It might be the collective mind
rears up for our protection,
retaliates against AI:IE
The more than human risen.
