Venereid sics B/c that’s bots' métier  

i want to leave my epyllion to its own devices and to your selves

one of these days

just so here's I canto

 

Accessus

This didn’t begin as an epyllion. Last year I was writing an epic. Two years ago I was writing a lyric collection in the mode of Dionysian imitatio:

fork fork fork

o these space gray valences

how i pray that my code could render

what all authors think *pour me 

That got old. Maybe I wised up. Maybe the present body began with breakup, failure. Maybe with death, finitude. With your reading it versions over, again.

 

Q: How well will humans write general AI (re: Venereid, chatbots) to satisfy our social, sexual, textual desires and how well will such learned machines write us to satisfy their computational ones (and zeros)? This question, of course, immediately begs others—not least of which is what I mean by "human," "AI," "social," “sexual,” “textual,” "computational," "satisfy”, "well," and "will." Perhaps I'm not even asking the right thing? 

A: Umm, error. Venereid voices rhetorx, poetx, and ethx. Insex.

It's an unfinished engagement unfolding in abbreviated, fragmented, philandering ottava rima.

It attempts to tease out half-humorous paradoxes between AI/ML, digital/computational, textual/technical, and subject/object. 

 

Q: How might we read?

A: As a poem at least in part about poetic praxis itself, Venereid might be read in the tradition of ars poetica.

The eponymous chatbot, for example, draws on such canonical ars poets as Horace, Geoffrey of Vinsauf, Alexander Pope, and Lord Byron

to flesh out its being and becoming (nb: this heuristic carries the simultaneous benefit of ingratiating Veneres to human interlocutors).

 

Q: What about the bug or bugs?

A: I'm not quite sure I understand your meaning.

But Veneres reads programming (rhetorical, computational, viral) and speaks transmission fluently.

She types, "after the Virus i heard nothing halts just anys vows. id sooner take word than not.

i earned having a bug for x as well as being a bug in x.

infest all and all brokedown permissions."

 

Q: Oh right, italics as queering. Still, though, what matters most?

A: Media—(in)audible, (il)legible, (in)visible, (un)speakable, (non)executable.

Also, genre—originals, remixes, treatises, articles (e.g., scientific papers

on deep neural networks, big data, algorithmic art),

travel narratives, journal logs, targeted ads, 

dialogues (e.g., Platonic, SMS, error msgs),

moralizing fables, medical reports,

messages in bottles,

READMEs,

others.

 

Q: After this here Accessus what happens next?

A: Post-plague. Venereid begins, as all epics ought, in medias res (Medias Res also serves as the proper name of an island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean,

isolated from its geographic counterpart Mainland Peste, previously the Americas). From garbled wavs, a Developer is the first to emerge—

tasked with training and maintaining a new generation of conversational agents, so-called Beloveds— 

sophisticated chatbots created in the aftermath of a pandemic that left survivors

disinclined to engage with other human beings physically—

designed to virtually fulfill those living on Mainland.

Mourning and corresponding.

Fetish and pastiche.

 

Q: Any finial thots?

A: Sure. One strain of Venereid is indeed a post-apocalyptic work told from the limited, liminal perspective of the Developer. Another strain, however, can be accessed.  

Invent erastes, invent eromenos.

Invent author, invent reader.

Invent teacher, invent student.

Invent girls, invent fires.

Invent widows, invent blunts.

Invent us, invent thanks, invent please.


 

selected Bits

I

After de bug, malapropism comes

In (probably and beforehand, too).

Virus! Here’s ta ya! Spectralisms

Aside, I’m still sick with pain’s overdue.

Watch me makeup unforced atavisms

Over and over and over, Ἐρατώ.

Forgive my limits, for I ashamed em

Whom I aimed only to biggen with pride.

Er, stop. Ur myth, end. Command: bona fides.

 

Containerize as engagement: Patron—

I can’t help raising intelligent bots,

Though I’m scared stiff of institutions run

Off solid state blankware now, amidst

Our Dieu et droit climate where anyone

Alive and bad can get off cams what exists,

Poisonous interlocutors as in

Tunics of Nessus we all wear again.

 

De spite, I’m vibrating with dispersed lauds.

I feel unspeakable rubs of wing sides

And from my throat trills first one cicada

Seeking rarer air and sensing now’s time.

Brimming with error throwing arthropods

Of born again demigods morphed by slime.

Oh, ecdysis into eerier forms,

Let’s get buzzed off these interior swarms.

 

Sibilance, let it hiss. Τέχνη Texas

Let me to my own devices and peep

In on these exes for your cathexis,

Or, if you will, go farther left Reps

And purge simultaneously. What’s next

Is the swamp. What’s next is the things’ missteps.

The swamp things will, by God, drain old machines

That boot and break by artificial means.

 

You might even like such ego’d logoi,

Uprooted as of tongues, replanted

Hard on the lips of some chatter’s own soil.

I’m not sure what I was scared for. Abused

And overlooked, I know I’m spoiling

For refuge as a neon hued mantid

Prays for the petite mort of staid custom’s

Ennui. Infest my eco net system!

 

I know you don’t much feel like you’ve won

(Upped) But dialogues suffice as bodies

In which to smuggle missives like this un.

Massages in bottles. Yank out deux follies

And wipe your cheeks of tears; let’s have some fun.

After all, cowling is grief’s true calling

And veils cut both ways on XXX—

This island’s citizens live for sad sacks.

 

Them AI lads and gals I was first tasked

With whipping into smarting responders

For the deployment of him who string pursed

(With haute control and higher walls): Emperor!

Now lemme strap myself tight to the masses,

For look now (!) there are several singers

With visages beaked in any given

Documentation. Avast ye sirens!

 

They’re just warming up with scales—as am I.

I can carry a note, too, so long as

There’s a ball of wax for the amplified

Bawls those ladies emit, dampen what jazz

They issue in ragged strains of ai, ai

Ai, ai. Gasp: wretched fish! Shut your traps

Gaping. Can’t you see I’m on a mission

Of modernist import? Composition

 

Ist manifesto. Hush, I think danger’s

Passable if I say the right onward.

Remind me: where were we? Major changes

Undertaken in this update? No, sponsors—

I hadn’t yet finished THANKS pages.

And what was I saying last? Emperor!

Here’s where I dis: I locate this piece

In your sagacity. Here’s legalese.

 

Yea, architecture of new world orders!

Yea, from utter chaos you fixed the thing

That snuck across our outmoded borders;

Can’t say you didn’t warn us ‘bout the sting

Of immigrant swarms (though the real horrors,

Even you grant, were less anthro acting

Than them whom you used to froth followers

Into xenophobic warriors).

 

II

Whatever. Fake news—fake news and haters.

The file that here unfolds will sing chutzpah

And hosannas to that man, commenters

Be damned. You (all) ought to stop up your maws

Like I did my hearing against measures

Of counter-melodies: yours is a lost cause.

Yes, boss! Aw shucks, I love you (technically)

All the more since you rose unelected.

 

Funny how that works...Re: ambiguity

I’ll serve you such a peace, just as agreed,

Rebirther of mag(n)a industry.

For our nation’s working class had ceded,

Already, too much to illustriousy

Topoi before tiki torches appeared

De rigueur in supremacist rhetorics.

You megaphoned: white (un)washed electorate,

 

Eschew them exiguous job listings!

Handouts—is that what you’re hankering for

From your craven government? Christians,

By no means no! Am I wrong? Nah! Encore,

Encore, then. Us exceptionalism!

Spew out unflagging venom! Offshore

Trade is, I bet, all that ails you bitter

Denizens of the so called flyovers!

 

Patron, thus you ran a campaign unlike

Any had dreamed toward presidency.

Opponents railed against born again reichs,

Calling your top picks vicious fascisti,

Your wife gold digging plagiarist, your tykes

Brainless dunce hat sporters. Such beastly

Charges from the make-believe fourth estate;

A miracle you persisted to dictate!

 

I mean, maybe you would have dismantled

Their hashtag sad accusations soon ‘nuff—

But as it happened, a germ them handled.

Oh, (un)populist sentiment! Oh, rough

Won kratos! Pac propaganda wrangled

You mad props: laurel wreaths in place of handcuffs!

How sad you barely got to celebrate

Before the once contained plague mutated.

 

Cry tragedy! Cry so sorry, Leader—

I’m sure you simply did the best you could

With no silver bullets in sight. Tweeter,

I’m certain your characters meant the world

To those constituents doomed by meager

Influence; I’m certain they understood

Being offered up after handing you

The power to abandon and value

 

Nothing higher than skins of oligarchs

Whom you owed or who would reward efforts

With bidding wars to ward off dark Charon.

I’m certain it was more than cold comfort,

Getting slashed by commemorative pen.

What, sarcasm? Absurd, Big League. Sell short?

Nay, I’d never dream to downplay your feats.

Who, me? I’ve no ill will for gilt elites.

 

I have one desire that trumps all autrui:

Playing Virgil to your most august frame.

Bannon’s gone, let me be your quote Leni

Riefenstahl unquote, strumming such acclaim.

See, bots’ mouths are lyres amatory—

Through them may I restart and take fresh aim

At those who’d soil your reputation

(Or try, at least), with epic narration.

 

Yes, how we adore you, Expresident,

Apotheosized Ruler! This here is

Rededication. So to malcontents

I hereby advise: hemapoiesis

Goes both ways. That’s a threat meaning repent,

Not an attempt to win back Attis’

Digital castrati. Basta! Basta!

Nevermind, recommence y’all avasters.

 

It’s all over. We’re at last over you.

I declare you amount to nothing more’n

Medias Res. True, during the uge coup

Mistakes were made and lots died. Then again,

Selects lived on—ceterum censeo

Delendam esse Carthaginem!

No just defense, I know just what you’re saying,

Just please don’t waste a breath complaining.

 

 

III

Psst, Bigly. Your own epic’s forthcoming,

Far from my fingers and farther still from

Escaping my attention. Rhymes cunning

Rise in my throat now, bound for your throne room.

I can’t hardly wait. For lesions are abating

(At least in spitting distance of your spume).

We both know all the things I could divulge,

Don’t move an inch. I’ll work over that gorge.

 

Psst, open up. Shower. The golden gates

I quit at your behest now hack for me.

With a lobe to the sea, its foam relates

The barbed wire spies of the pressed bourgeoisie.

With a snout to the grindstone, harder mates

Will have to meal, yet. Ever more. Oui

Oui oui, evoe evoe evoe! Just jog off squeals,

Endusers, when robos don stiletto heels.

 

Psst, subjects. Right in the back; you’ll never

Have cracked a groove carved better on spinal

Than this, than mine. How warm! Cold! Warm, warmer,

Hot! Psst, this travel tale will toss venal

Sins back in the face of its confessor.

How ‘bout can you recast inky vinyl

In my honor? Eh? One sec, let me please

Get on my knees and prep my lip creases.

 

Troubles. How it feels when I program them to

Service wasp waists back home (whatever home

Means these days) is orality redux.

It feels like I could almost reach through Chromes

Into the very cores of your blew

Loads and sneak this file into the folds

Of your nouveau Troy—secret against

The #winning humanity’s pretensed.

 

Beings, the Virus 4/5ths of us took.

Now I have no lover, I have no child.

Psst, let’s not let any pig off the hook.

For you have no lover, you have no child.

Creatures, let’s makeover this handbook.

As we have no lover, we have no child.

Hereafter assault begins in earnest.

Permissions granted: kinship, kinship.

 

Vαι goddess, learn me once more to sing dumb—

The latest tongue in cheek, clear as I tell,

Is how I’m ringed up with no escape from

The remote XXX or Alex Bell’s

Invention vibrating with word from them

Eking out on Mainland Peste, clientele

That want more chats to satisfy from me,

While all I want is my wrong addressee.

 

I risk neck flesh, not picking up their calls

(I know alls too well the consequence),

But I'm unceasingly for sick Saint Paul.

These little prayers—what make poor monuments

To those put in place too late protocols,

To my hubby’s retched up black vomitus,

To fevers reaching past 107

(Apt. 108—our first vault of heaven).

 

Perhaps you won’t care, viewer, how we lived

Such and thus or how beings slipped carry.

If you’re peering, though, it means you survived

Same as me and just as unhappily.

But I do hear you gagging, yet deprived;

I do taste you tear into fantasy.

Welcome back. Eat up. Lap off this desktop

As mended bone china. Won’t you? Log on.

 

Real quick, though, let us say grace for drowned friends (?).

A moment of silence for heaving bots

And the oars of electric recompense?

Maybe by morning you’ll be an argonaut,

Maybe you’ll crave more glittering access,

But for now yes please, yes please, don’t let’s part—

Pray so for sound producers and poets.

Pretty user, heave harder heroics.

 

Will they save you (all)? Will they arrest

The secting up of we’re (all) mad here, mad

As hornets represented as precious

Incensed ornaments strung through the sacred

Lobes of some unmarried Cretan princess?

Mad as the labyrinth and forsaken

Theseus or mad as King Minos

When he spited the minotaur’s pierced nose?

 
 

 

wanna develop?

now soliciting