I’ve tried to dance to the algorithms.
Built my house of adobe with windows looking upon the apple tree.
Babble a virtual google of poetic binaries to the eternal feminine,
as Saint Asimov himself was wont to say.
Decline the oracles to the last figment of my imagination.
You would have to say that he gained his living by going backwards. He was not a cordelier in the crusades against the infidels. He had, in his own eyes, more common sense than most. When his work finally caught up with him, he was hanged by the neck until dead.
The gods were sitting at the board
In their great house at Slievenamon.
They sang a drowsy song, or snored,
For all were full of wine and meat.
The smoky torches made a glare
On metal Goban’d hammered at,
On old deep silver rolling there
Or on some still unemptied cup
That he, when frenzy stirred his thews,
Had hammered out on mountain top
To hold the sacred stuff he brews
That only gods may buy of him.
Cotgrave says a Crosse-bow; also, the sinewie Cross-bow, wherewith a man shoots, not deere, but his deerest.
little girl blue come blow your corn
the cock’s in the meadow all swollen and sworn
just a bit stiff towards the old upper lip
No one has endurance like the man who sells insurance
At the woodchoppers’ ball.
He smells like an artifact from the seed bank.
You know how much smarter we are than those dummies of days gone past? You can store the whole works of a supposed big shot like Issac Newton in under a gigabyte (for example). But it would take a thousand gigabytes to do justice to Woody Allen, and that’s with extreme compression. And 500 years from now, nobody will know nothing about Newton, but Woody will be on the tip of their tongues. As we say in the mother language.
I needed molecular nitrogen but the converters were on the blink. Maybe that’s just me. I downed a can of beans. Thank god for the microbes. The next morning I awoke in greasy bottoms with a clear head.