Written musings/ Poetry

Human AI poems (scraped data, sources mostly unknown/rendered irrelevant):

Vape replacement theory

Fascism is wanting to return to “the natural order”.
Restore the mythic past.
“There are aliens where our children should be.”
Vape replacement theory.
I smoke for my mental health.
Excessive passive activities.
The daddy imperial state doesn’t look after you
Tendrils of the same vicious, destructive movement.
Stay soft – with q tips. The White House’ communications chief has a strategy:
Relentless aggression.
Binge responsibly, there are no justified genocides.
Transformation is not welcomed but feared.
The multifaceted nature of play: as a coping mechanism,
as a framework for contemporary hyperreality,
and as an essential element of human resilience.
It’s an exciting time to be alive.
A reflection on thinking past surfaces.
There is no document of civilisation without traces of barbarism.
Broken monuments thinking about ruins.
A world cocksure of itself, crushing with its stoniness.
This and scrolling Tumblr together in 2015.

Sources: podcasts, Trans rights march in London 2025, reposted memes, Instagram ad, art idea in notes app, quotes from Guardian newspaper articles, exhibition texts on Instagram, online presentation of ‘On Sadism and the City’ by Hussein Mitha @hussmitha


In the throes

THERE
BE SQUARE
It’s not that you’re uninterested or lazy; it’s that your brain sometimes slams the brakes the second you say “Go!”.
MY CHOICE
How meaningful are categories anymore?
icq
“I’d like to know a little more before we talk about a get-together in meatspace.”
We cannot remember, only project.
How is this real 😍
“The whole world is kind of in the throes of ecstasy.”
this is not the sun. this is a still image from a video of the exact moment a ziomerican missile struck a home in northern Gaza, tearing through the skin of reality,
Loading…
Murmur of the flesh.
Down the rabbit hole and rapidly fluctuating in size.
Link To Your GP – a sense of emotional distance.
I believe sensory intervention can be used to manifest other worlds and ways of being.
what are you talking about?
How Migrant Suffering Sustains White Democracy
Check the link in bio to watch – concrete pavement slab, fiver

Sources: exhibition names, exhibition texts, Dr IQ, book title, quotes from books, ad, Instagram posts like by @alaa______ma, medium list of an artwork by Grace Clifford


Conditions today

These cities have become exhausting places
apricot on cream cheese
Rushing sound of the tap.
Déjà Rêvé
water drop on a plinth
(a million abstracted men)
Egg in hole fermented
like syrup?
Sack time – to bring the invisible to the point of visibility
These days I feel constantly provoked, from all sides.
Conditions today
bowel-rupturing
They often came in the form of jewellery
Paying a pound to piss

Sources: exhibition texts, artwork ideas, Sally Rooney’s ‘Intermezzo’, artwork names, articles, Instagram posts


Tube, fragmented

Time is money
But money takes time.
Mind the gap.
Considering
Way out
I’ve always been aware of being an inconsistent personality.
Dead and alive.

Sources: tube ads, newspaper article fragments, tube announcements


Scrapes I

Roaring into being
The heat of the day
Malicious communications
The surface gleams
Hyper-baroque
Thank you for keeping us online.
Bypassing blockages
Realise your dreams

Sources: online


Scrapes II

Trust the void
Trash talk
Silent studio
Glory box
Imagine a world
The same tired tune, lifelessly on repeat
Bed rotting isn’t recovery, it’s a response to burn out
Pastoral twilight
TOTAL TRIAGE
All in which you live
Zoomtopia
System Reboot Required

Sources: online/offline combined

_____________________________

Cute aggression
Unearthly bounds
Few possessions
Heart weighs a pound
_____________________________

Before Corona and after

And I don't mean the beer.
I mean the fear
of being near
you or you.
And I so wanted to hug
you or you
more,
express my care,
express my love
through touch

no more.

_____________________________

Memories can be heavy
heavy on one's chest
the heaving chest.
Heavy heaving
Not just of childhood, 
but of
______________________________

Today I raked the leaves. It was a nice pastime. It passed some of my time and I spent it outside. Afterwards I could see the result: A clear driveway. Cleared from all the leaves. A man walked past and said: When you're done, can you do mine? I said: Sorry? He repeated: When you're done here, you'll come do mine. I said, Yeah, glad to have understood: sure... and somewhat laughed. Now I am thinking, you know what? I will come do yours. It's a nice way to pass the time. I will spend it outside and doing someone a favour. Clear their driveway, clear their heads. It sure cleared my head. 

Of course I never did go do his nor anyone else's for that matter, and I never did get a rake for myself to do this on a more regular basis, like this one moment had made me want to do. 

Why do I keep going against the grain?

________________________________

Grapes.
Shapes.
Pleasure.
A beginning, so sweet,
an end, so certain.

_________________________________

WUT.
(The first word that comes to my mind. Because the first word is was always German.)

_________________________________

This urge

This urge
this dread
this...
To create dangerously
but not finding a beginning
Wading in the aftermath
of the written.
Words
wanting to spill from swollen
lips
This urge to be heard,
to speak,
to cry out loud:
I am here
knowing that some day I won't be

__________________________________

Fremdling

They send me pictures,
videos, 
call me.
They request
to see me,
hear me
now. 
They demand. 
They.
They are visiting Turkey.
A city with the name Viransehir.
A city, a name, so far, so out of reach.
The mind's reach. 
My mind's.
Blurred pictures of women in scarves,
in mountains, with traditional face paintings.
Or tattoos? 
I don't know for sure. 
________________________________

Anger towards feeling buried in myself.
Who has the shovel?
Who the soil?
Open up the ribs,
reveal yourself. 
I wanna say
to my self
being buried in myself. 

_________________________________

At the tip of this pen,
release.
At the tip of my tongue,
almost.
The tip of the iceberg,
melting,
fast.

The cherry on top?
At ease.

_________________________________

PAIN
E
N

SCHMERZ
T
I
F
T

__________________________________

When things consume me, they consume me.
So, I have to choose with care what I will consume, because I could be consumed.
And, 
if I'm already consumed
by things I had consumed before,
I could be eaten alive. Swallowed whole. 
by all that's out there
to consume. 

___________________________________

I somewhat laughed
Somewhat?
Yes.
You mean you grinned?
No, I made a sound.
The sound of a grin?
No, the sound of a laugh.
So, you laughed?
No, I somewhat laughed.
So, you smiled?
No, I somewhat laughed.
How do you somewhat laugh?
You snicker. 
So, you giggled?
No. 
Scoffs and signs off. 

___________________________________

you know when
...hm?
You know when you
hmm...
Are you scrolling?
Yes. You got me. Funny how one can tell.
It's a certain type of silence. So, you know when you print out a text and don't read it?
Yeah
Did you hear what I said?
Sorry I am listening now. What did you say?
I said...
Are you scrolling now? 
YES! *laughs*
I started when you were and now I'm stuck. Sucked in. My thoughts blank. 
Okay, let's hang up and chat later.
Sure. 

Of course we never did "chat later". 

Why do we let ourselves get sucked into the aether?
____________________________________

On the current condition: 

The new Soft. Decay okay. Thrive in a new coat. By Mould.

____________________________________

The fear of death dictates my days,
it lingers and looms,
so certain awaits. 

____________________________________

My own self-indulgence is me.

____________________________________

The Tale of the Humble Turd. 

This is the tale of the humble turd.

The humble turd seldom was perturbed and when it looked in the mirror, it saw a diamond. Unpolished - yet, so clearly, a diamond. Now, it wouldn't be a humble turd if the turd was in fact a diamond. Indeed, this then would not be the tale of the humble turd but instead the tale of the humble diamond. And, would it be humble; the diamond, if it spent its days in front of the mirror polishing itself and becoming even shinier? Wouldn't it in turn rather just be a diamond and then this would be the tale of the diamond and not the tale of the humble turd? And - isn't it so much more lovely; a tale of a humble turd rather than a tale of a diamond? 
And so ends the tale of the humble turd; the turd that knew, deep down beneath its layers; that it was in fact a diamond. 

____________________________________

Trapped between
push
and pull, where I
am the one
doing the pushing
and the pulling.
I am my own puppeteer, me -
pulling the threads,
poking the sides
while the body lays flat 
for two days bubbling
in its own rot,
wet is the bed with man-made shame,
buried alive until thirst becomes
too big to tame
with bodily fluids after a night out, 
alone.

Nothing starves off a body's own juices
Like self-induced bruises, 
drenched in old duvet,
yesterday's t-shirt.
And - 
next week.

Avoiding, avoided.
Will patterns be broken,
anxiety curtailed,
and self-esteem boosted?

Cycles of
Fearing and loathing in Last Night of
doping,
            groping,
                            (not) coping,
and hoping

Progress isn't linear. You repeat,
progress isn't linear.
Taking aim at compassion
                                                for the self that is trapped,
pushed and pulled
in contortion,
for I know it's the key for breaking the pattern.

Though knowing's not doing,
must keep at it, cueing:
Body does not just follow
meanwhile fluids seep out of burrows,
shame restarts its growl. 
Don't just want to follow.
My body,
the finite resource.


_____________________________

Some publications: 

Poetry as part of the Poetry Hour (Birthday Mix) by resident host  @Dustbreeding on Movement Radio: 

https://movement.radio/podcast...: