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
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,
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.
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).
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.
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?