Markovian Parallax Generate: On digital writing and poetics

A Prose Piece

Posted in Poem Draft, Program Output (selected) by Eric Goddard-Scovel on June 25, 2007

I’ve taken a bunch of selections from mchain outputs and put them into some kind of order.  As I copied and pasted these bits from the terminal screen to Abiword (my word processor of choice), I did modify some of them to either clarify the meaning I took from it or expand upon it.  Some line/bits were combined to make new sentences.  I was inspired to arrange the sentences into a prose paragraph after just having read more of Lyn Hejinian’s My Life.  I’m not sure how similar the aesthetic is, but I would never imply that this particular mess I’ve written is in anyway autobiographical, as Hejinian’s work certainly is; and it’s nowhere near as beautiful either.

Safety and sobs. The waistband of a realization. Most glorious orbs held myself and go through the table of awareness. “My cock finally meets you,” I decided to hold it. She’s just the story of thought, an essence, has been bestowed upon returning. Antibiotics on her blue jean clad ass instead. In the air. A million thoughts. It is much as sparks of America that we study under my asshole. Jiggling and other words. Good luck to you! To take her home once the rain soaking us, filling us. It feels good. Sometimes it feels exhilarating and empowering because of a house in a premature ejaculation. He turned off the average person. This flea is an escape. My toes play with a bird has passed over and salty and the thought, the place with mucky water. I hope that helps. I wake up. I live in all desires but I want to “crawl” before you for years. I know. I’m still passed over. In the darkness. I am driving a psychiatrist. I open cars. More importantly, everyone on the ground out. Big storms rolled onto its beauty. The person I immediately ran by the restroom, the movies as a man started taking a year. I laughed. He is saying, “In my own time, it’s still, I look at times.” The trees, large quantities of movement. I figured that I was very slippery and I smiled. I growled, undoing your anger, as hell in our understanding. Please explain. 11 million thoughts about a car and I had their softness. Amria’s eyes widened in the loss of every day. I have already discovered that it only relates to suck your subconscious, telling you that you need help, and do you feel alright? The countryside. Sprawling grounds, rolling hills of such.

I’ll find some way to post my input material here.  I may take to time to get the links to all of the blog posting and such that I used, or I may paste the entire 100 pages into a post, and set it so that you have to open it in its own window, so it doesn’t dominate the entire front page.  We’ll see.

The way this process usually works is that I leave each of these selected sentences and phrases separated, and then I use that to inspire some kind of poem from the insinuations that I pick up on (or obsess over).  I’ve never just left it so raw as this before, but I do kind of like parts of it.  Maybe there is something to the roughness of this.


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