Seeds of Light

One bright star–
A young maiden from the far-northern country,
With the broad neck of a gentle bosom;
A charm,
Flourishing alone amidst the glowing beams,
From the pale gleam of the bright sun.
It shone up like a luminous shield of day; and,
While the beams shone, she had her eyes in them.

She touches her face
Upon her hands and breast,
And the hands fill her mind with radiant flame..
Her head then falls on her breast with rapture,
For the Moon is poured slowly as it is born:
And in the heart and eye of the sacred flame,
Flourish the flowers of earth with the perfume of her scent.

When you pass round the moon and moonlight,
The fire that lights your eyes is as the sacred flame
Which glows in the eye of God:
There may be nothing greater than this luminous flame.

Birds of the cold North now soar over the snowy land,
Mighty clouds roll high round the wintry North;
With blazing swords the great King’s steeds pass,
To ride to the distant war-rallied land.
Whistling and booming are the distant cannons.
Then thunder blasts its long and monstrous gun.

I will go down, so the Gods shall not know me,
And the wicked shall know that I am my own master
Till I shall have put down the stars from the sky.

O Gods, all ye Gods,
I entreat you,
The great work:
Surely Thou hast seen,
This world’s burning destruction;
And why art Thou wroth?

I have delivered Light,
As Thee commanded,
And have sown the seeds of My Progeny
Over this now barren earth
With dutiful glee,
And with perfect soundness of Mind.

A. G. Davis, 2021

Algorithmic approach:
NLG generated lines, prompted with text from
The Botanic Garden (Part I), by Erasmus Darwin

Language model:
GPT-2 with Textsynth

Voice of my Heart

The passion of warmth
On a cold white night,
A thousand years to come,
And he is a dying fire of love
With death’s wings,
A flaming furnace in the night
The sun burns in a dream
And he is in darkness,
He is on the ground
And we know he’s not dead yet,
But we’re asleep,
We know he’s still here,
Until morning comes,

Until morning comes,
We know he’s still here,
But we’re asleep,
And we know he’s not dead yet,
He is on the ground
And he is in darkness,
The sun burns in a dream
A flaming furnace in the night
With death’s wings
And he is a dying fire of love
A thousand years to come,
On a cold white night,
The passion of warmth

Missy Betta, 2021

Algorithmic approach:
NLG generated lines & reversal

Language model:
GPT-2 with Textsynth



(Him in his bed. An open window. Nardo and Tirés.)

Ravens on the crags or solitary smiles wanting neither food, nor clothes, nor love,
staggering perched upon the hither side
where every watercourse fell swoln, grasped to possess a kind of second life.
Noisy rivulet, from verdant hills we came with a homely hope to be forgiven,
every hundred steps, stretched at ease we laid
worn mangled limbs over my tiresome indolence.
TIRÉS: [Near the bed, gazing down at the man in it.] ‘Another tourist, Heaven preserve us!’
NARDO: [Near the open window, looking outside.] ‘What a feast. Preserve? That is not why we are here.’
TIRÉS: [Impatient.] ‘The loiterer!’
Saw mountains; saw the forms comfort each other haunting over the infirmity of love

its glittering wire, sparkling foam. Ice breaks and perilous waters
we’ve christened a field: two books
reared amongst, fared through, engendering both in a bare ring, a mossy wall
tempted to entrust.
Entering, when evening was far spent in teasing matted wool,
twin cards toothed with gentle care, each in the other lying locked
us: a pair of diaries to chronicle fallen eaves and past time.
NARDO: ‘Drooped and pined? Just like the rest?’
TIRÉS: ‘Nay, Sir, for aught I know…’ [Once perused the man lying there.] ‘Cheerful mind of thoughts in a pretty flock; busy hands of a thriving man; I tell you, he took his way and only then he began to doubt.’
NARDO: [Pointing at the sky.] ‘Had he forgotten?’
TIRÉS: ‘Such confusion in his memory!’
NARDO: ‘Had he lost his path?’
TIRÉS: ‘It seems, if such freedom may still be of any use to him.’
NARDO: ‘God forbid!’
Venturing to enquire tidings, blood and bones to margin the precipice
our dialogue ensued through distant miles, and more: led aery,
stopped only at complacency all of us have wished
for the two bells of our crowned hopes
from height to height to lay half-buried,
under a cloudless sun, valley, heap or carded turf in the same loneliest place.
Strange alteration waiting beneath every side: expectations, we want, we try
our fickle winds
to blow from the same breath through days and weeks
images and hues that wrought
and could travel every hollow place to trace the finger of mortality.
NARDO: ‘The happy bounds! The festival of their inheritance!’
TIRÉS: [Finger pointed.] ‘Is it… a tear long down his cheek?’
NARDO: [With little interest.] ‘He thence might learn.’
TIRÉS: ‘Three months? Six months? How long?’
NARDO: ‘Following his fancies, by the hour.’
TIRÉS: [In doubt.] ‘To me he does not seem to wear the face which then he had.’
For the following thousand years morning came
with all its mealy clusters of ripe nuts to feed the ravens; filled
the steady sail with determined purpose, seated
upon the long stone beneath the shed that over-arched our day’s gate,
no ill was feared,
till one,
acquired by the traffic of our many darling pleasures darlings to each other.
Welcome come and welcome gone and you,
even among these rocks, looking around these rocks for the stars to appear
in one of your stray brooks, judged
ploughed, midleg deep. Ours was rent with lightning so long
as dearly, untoward in its weary line we are not all that perish.
NARDO: [Earnest.] ‘And be in no doubt my friend, not to go unnoticed at least, as from now, he has relinquished all his purposes.’
TIRÉS: [Resolved.] ‘Rapid and luckless fortune it is then!’
NARDO: ‘Remind me to write fool upon his forehead.’
TIRÉS: ‘Such is our piety.’
Heedless of the past; as you may have noticed about this rude churchyard
where world’s business is to hear strangers talking about a stranger,
here’s neither head nor foot-stone, nor emblem of our former hopes. Stone-cutters
we might beg our bread for the same turf we have tread, everlasting hills
that strive with such a torrent, they can write


and speak too; well,
historians hanging in the open, tarry, parted or communed have interchanged.
NARDO: ‘Have you just heard him?’
TIRÉS: [Learned.] ‘Land, with other burthens, interest and mortgages: at last he sank.’
NARDO: ‘Indeed.’ [Then, to himself, gazing outside the window.] ‘Pretty much the same chasm here.’
TIRÉS: ‘One roaring cataract that is!’
NARDO: ‘No symbols Sir, tell us that plain tale.’
TIRÉS: ‘Forgive me. [Paternal.] A gushing from his heart. That, took away the power of speech as we know it. Just one serving and a disquietude unknown to him might have stopped him from talking but to himself.’
NARDO: ‘Perpetual holiday, idleness and the humour of the moment! And that is what we almost overlooked.’
Far from wanting facts or dates, some hastened glances spurred along yon ridge; storm
and entreating thaw beneath the trees where we were tempted: and there we were,
two springs that bubbled cherished side by side. Toiled and felled wood you
may turn in your conclusions and wanders from the truth;
I, the other,
left behind to go wild alone, still lingering there whether foul or fair,
re-born, blew creep or unbridged, am flowing still forgotten,
even though to disappear would be joyous
in a web spun to store flowers that will grow where another absence
another sun is setting
over this love done to spare.
NARDO: [With back-and-forward steps.] ‘Conclusion. Conjectured.’
TIRÉS: ‘Sir?’
NARDO: ‘Tis a common case: no more.’
TIRÉS: ‘Sir…’
NARDO: ‘Given a Bible, I’d wager house and field that, if that was not that particular spot only he knew…’
TIRÉS: ‘Sir!’
NARDO: ‘His home, his heart…’
TIRÉS: ‘Sir: it is the third day after.’
NARDO: ‘Failed with him.’ [Short silence.] No! [Short silence. Then, to himself, looking at the bed.] ‘In him.’
TIRÉS: ‘Sir!’
NARDO: [Stormy.] ‘Am I speaking here or what?!’
TIRÉS: ‘Sir. This: it is.’
NARDO: [Determined.] ‘And more than once I have seen him…’
TIRÉS: ‘I beg!’
NARDO: ‘You half-weep! [Impatient.] Speak then. Well? What is that you want?’
TIRÉS: [Long silence, then, with a grave voice.] ‘We brought him here. To us, Sir: do remember.’
NARDO: [Long silence.] ‘Lifted.’
TIRÉS: ‘Stolen.’
NARDO: [Silence.] ‘Cleft.’
TIRÉS: ‘Stolen.’


Massimo Fantuzzi, 2020

Remixed work:

The Brothers, by William Wordsworth

Cody Visions

man, lowdown over a blue print
such a cunt you know         over East Forty-First?
alone driving together friscoport         a sudden splash
five years talking doesn’t get you high man
i am with Bull remember         sittin
standin         ten years now Prisno Beach
so, ah (the Green Hornet)
he’s being gay         i know what you’re thinking         all this time
Cody soft, cool in his sportshirt
only socks suit open a collar
kill a man in the night
sing it New York energy         all the cunts a New York kick
the washtubs trying mebbe all winter
(something inaudible)
(Mexican Mambo)
means look- get h-i-g-h…
carpet scarred Coca-cola
the wall a strange beautiful stove sits black onetime red
beat gas station sincere soap of America
like movie shack juke buckle
sailors kids brokendown sharp suits
wild clear on the big Dreiser house lighting
distant moanings, with their sheens
with its nameless Lee Konitz greenshow
drunk for a month on Texas jewelry
fires of American poolhall white school
basement Colfax stolid         motherlike
realities nudging cars         tired
i want to stretch like a bum
blowing the bus to ice-cold rice
New Jersey

Terry Lea, 2020

Remixed work:

Visions of Cody, by Jack Kerouac

This Afternoon

Don’t be careful.
Definitely burn down the house.
Find others waiting to catch fire in a thoughtless world.
Launch something beautiful to places you didn’t know you knew.

Definitely burn down the house.
Dream, explore, and play in an instinctive state.
Launch something beautiful to places you didn’t know you knew.
Water simmering coals on the way down.

Dream, explore, and play in an instinctive state.
Find others waiting to catch fire in a thoughtless world.
Water simmering coals on the way down.
Don’t be careful.

Shloka Shankar, 2020

Remixed works:

Quotes on first drafts, by Chanelle Benz,
Ray Bradbury, Jennifer Egan, Ursula K. Le Guin, Kurt Vonnegut, and others

Open to Sky

I refuse to call them ruins. The place is very much alive. I have whispered and pulsated with the waves, thoughts from the celestial realm. There aren’t even parking spaces big enough for them. I am not whatever anymore. I love to hear sounds bleeding, all the crazy out there in our world. I bet a lot of birds get confused. You need an index. If you don’t have an index, you don’t know anything. It’s like an archipelago – the islands are not connected at the top, but at the bottom of the ocean.

Howie Good, 2020

Remixed works:

Articles from hyperallergic, 6 & 7 November 2019

Caveat Emptor

I used to kid about crawling around the woods talking to animals. Imagine my surprise when I learned it was a waterfall. This was in the ’60s when everybody stole everything. So there were a lot of books around, for one thing. Wherever I was, if it started raining, I’d run to work. You were allowed to be mean to the customers. The customer was always wrong. And now? I’m just looking at the hummingbird up there so I don’t have to deal with all the parking and the bullshit. Then I can meet the coyotes on the way back.

Howie Good, 2019

Remixed works:

John Waters on Working for Mary Oliver in Her Bookstore, with Paul Holdengraber
A.E. Stallings: ‘I’m Optimistic About Poetry, but That’s Maybe the Only Thing’, by Peter Mishler
T.C. Boyle is Most Certainly Living His Best Life, by Peter Nowogrodzki


Enough Dark to Hide

A handful of fingers in my hair wakes me. The clouds come apart and it snows. All this distance, but you drag your same old bones, your same old brain with you. She brushes the flakes off her fake-fur collar.
The apartment is full of the souvenirs of a lived life, each one of the nails holding memory in place. There are red flowers like big mouths. She fills a pot with warm water. Food made the day’s work possible, but is it heavy in the heart or the gut? She wants more to drink.
She made various bowls, none of them necessary for the world. What we have to eat, our water, our habitat, is the only place left to us. Her eyes are dry.
The best we can hope for, the very utmost dream, is to be naked with someone our own age or a little older and muck around with them in the dark. Snow and snow and snow. A new, white sea is born. It feels silent and heavy.
If I open the blanket and you are gone, I will forgive you.

Aura Martin, 2019

Remixed work:

Awayland: Stories, by Ramona Ausubel