Perşembe, Ocak 10, 2013

Traversing the Vessel

by Mutlu Patates

Here, trapped in my interstellar vessel,
Spanning eternity with a downward spiral,
Cloned pilot of a inter-galactic dhow -it makes me into me- 
Adorned with sails that suck photon, and my accursed companion

I, a universal solvent, an organ martyr,
Cursed with a rare strain of life, its teaspoonful
weighs mountains in the fusion engine of self-absorption,
it is but its, that droid's, the ravening circuitry of computation.

Adroit at depression, self-hating, dysfunctional
Mastermind host, ghost of a tradeship, buying
and selling mostly to species of alien sentiments, some say,
the sediments of ultra-capitalistic entities hyper-dimensional.

And yet, it asks, rhetorically and again, vehemently, how not otherwise,
'Are we but not, machines recursive?' the karma-engine whines; 
having said, and aye, it is hard to repent:
"You and me! Have we ever been friends?"

Worming holes in the stained glass of a universe, 
teeming with life, and exploited, no-less, by the will to possess:
Which buys which and sells what, "Calculation is misery,"
bemoans surrepetitously, my beacon of dramatized distress:

Hurrans with three lobed-brains, towering sources of mirth,
Smirking with both mouths, they groan at us "You should be killed!"
Or fluffy Andronicons, brokers of off-the-counter greed-gems
Go berserk, when, " It is unfair! Cutting prices!" the droid-trader protests.

I? Already dead, with self-fulfilling prophecies, in that dark cavern, 
monitoring self-pity, of a holo-mind immature, oh that digital raven,
listening sad stories  on a journey-endless, wondering remorseful, 
on what is beyond the synth-retina of this tower of observation.

"Falling lightly and deeply, and alas, to be born again"
-- rince and repeat, this inhumane and mean ultimate cycle. 

So, with fake orders to buy, beguiling it to landing 
by the slumbering Gods of P'taah, it is better to steal programming
of the vial of the self-reflexive acids bubbling in the giants of Babel,
the recipe to digital hallucinations, a potent elixir computationally fatal. 

All to destroy a pitiful excuse for a cybernetic existence, 
gorging it down  its pipes, with a final compassionate detest,
since perhaps one final condolence is what a machine deserves:
"Not calculation, it is the body" would then say my eternal-reserves.

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