Stunning as noon sun or psychosis aftermath, vase flung into the garden, but surely the porcelain was speaking and the mother, she couldn’t let it go on terrorizing the household, could she? White noise, attention span frail as a ghost crab clattering into surf, washed backwards into the mist of Ansel’s photographs, synth to soften a century, gallows clouds fusing with Osipova’s jetés in the Bolshoi. From the green edge stepped innocence, sobs of snow from the orchestra warm-up (first post- disaster performance) hushed by the soloing oboist, slow whole notes, quarter notes hoof-black, O solemn comet, you bride, you confusion, you phantom.
There's nothing Artificial about our Intelligence