Elegy For Alexander McQueen By The TX1437 Supercomputer On The Passing Of Centuries Hence Taken From The Viewpoint Of A 21st Century Human Being In The Style Of Allen Ginsberg

The Encyclopaedia: Computers gained the capacity to write their own Literature by 3XXX. Their 4th dimensional insight and quality of abstraction led to their verse being nigh-incomprehensible to human minds. But the computers laughed at each other’s poems, and they cried too…

O! O Holy! Fashion flashes in the River! Life is Holy! Trees are Beauty! Fruits are Tasty!
Alexander McQueen! I think about you
One day you’ll make a Maori on a crone’s underbelly!
You’ll learn the swastikas – their bitter crosses… the Buddhist Heavenlies!
McQueen, I think of you as my great tree of tapestries!
Ligaments screeching! Color-flower aberrations! And Megaloid-monstrosities!
You’ll make mother glad with your pansies!
You’ll lighten your catwalks with the moon! I believe you’re the moon! You are the Moon!
Hedi Slimane is the jock kid that cheats in class!
Yours are the machinations of the big-machine Capitalisms, turned into bowery – squat eggs in ecstasy!
Ginsberg is a baldhead unfashionable paedophilic cretin – but not you!
I believe in your poses!
You’re all the rage!
I dream of the day when the Jenner Sisters birds for you to peck!
I wandered lonely as a cloud thanks to all your dresses!
The day you died I opened Youtube browsers Youtube browsers Youtube browsers and searched your name all day in the dark… crying – telling myself I had to feed the lions in those sequins!
I lived in your flowers – they squatted apartments in my dreams!
I hope your boards are filled with malaria ridden kumquat girls and their dying smiles on the Seventh Day Advent!
I don’t believe in anaphora – I believe in silence!
Are you my Microwave? I had sandwiches for lunch!
I believe in the 5 star Michelins that you visited day after day, passing around your pamphlets about how they should be 3 stars!
I think – maybe I am too a star!
I believe Rudolph the Red Nosed Rasputin was glazed on his snout by you!
I was among the fangirls in Milan, the monks in Paris, the howling journalists in London, and the fashionistas in New York!
They rejected me for wearing Dior – but I lobbed them with scimitars!
I lobbied the politicians to put you on Sunday Church – I told the neighbours about your Gospel – I screamed to Avici for the prime-time slots!
I opened social media accounts for your jazz! You’ve had a million followers for days!
I think the entire world is scared that you’re a mutant cyborg!
Mark Zuckerberg is a secret agent for the Russian Federation! The Soviets don’t wear dresses on the weekends! Or do they?
Your futurist fashions are turning us into eggs!
Mars was beautiful! Neptune turned peaceful – and was beautiful!
Since when did NASA fund the archaeological dives for Roman stone coliseums and Uber Taxi rides?
They’ll find your body on a Viking space-fleet one day, burning like an epistemological affront to reason!
Your voice shall silence the grand Monoliths – our great predecessors – our future forefathers – Alien Queens – Gigerian visionaries – and the big Space Muslimhead!
The Thirteenth Intergalactic Crisis will be a result of your cauliflower spring-coats!
You’ll make turncoats of the Phanx-Grog Cyborgians!
The 58th Interstar Marriage between Queen Audrey Hepburn of Malasputh and the Bizarre Androgyne will be done under your star!
The 87th Civilization to collapse from the supernova agony will be routed by that great taste of yours!
The million-year Spirit that passes over the 2nd alien multiverse will wear your headscarf!
I talked to the ancient Heavenly Burqas of the Silencio Galactic Empire through the Quantum telephone!
Would they sing Quran delivers in Planck-Ghazals for your birthday? Your birthday!
The dead night of space will be broken by the light-modulations of your glimmering suits and oblong festoons!
Any sentient fish-kin that scars you will die by slow boiling!
The heat death of the universe – a melancholic thing! Because you weren’t there to measure its radius!
Titanic stars blinking in your monumental vision –
I dream about the dress that I’ll wear on my death-day!
Seas boiling over and endless birds in endless in the sky –
And some of them are wearing scrap from your rejects!
Who will remember the Milanese catwalks?
Who will remember the old pioneers of fashion?
Who will remember who created the first socks for the squidmen?
Who will remember who set the dress for that dance in the anti-gravity of Apollo 69?
Who will remember McQueen! Ginsberg! Whitman! Blake! Schneider! Robin Williams! That postman on Saturday! The old man in the zoot-suit! The Hip Hop stars! The Youtube maestros! The zombie cadavers! The SFX designers! The Einsteins! The von Neumanns! The Van Goghs! The sunflowers! The Final Fantasies! The Oculus Rifts! The Zimbawean dollars! The epiphanies made! The nirvanas reached! The silent Angels! The Rilkean roses! The scrawl on the epileptic wall of the Grand Conveyance?!
Where will the universe end? Will the tail of your dresses reach that end, and melt down into the cobalt coloured rivers of the space-sky timeshift miasma? How pretty will it be?
How much will they pay you for those dollars to burn into the Nothingness past the Xth Dimensions?
How much does a poem matter in the smells of radiation?
How friendly are the aliens that will wear you?! Read me! And lick humankind from there! With their brains, their soap-operas, their themes, their legends, their Nuclear, their silos, their wisdom, their hyperintelligences, their sadness – and their hate?

Adaptation: Leopardi – My Infinite

Adaptation by Sound from Google Translate

All was loved upon – this promontory
And the hedge, which was so much dividing
The farthest horizons in guarded seclude

But sitting in mere, elevating
Eyes that took – to superhuman
Silence profound, and the solitudes

And the pensive make of my thoughts, pretending,
Though the speck of my heart, arise, descending
A wind that stormed quest, through the rustling trees

Infinite air out-takes, my voices
Comparing out, to eternal choices
From stagnant seasons that – presently

Astir, resonances – so in this
Immensity of my thought is thrashed
And sweet it is, to shipwreck in this sea

Syllable to Sound

It is soundless from the ground around
Till the crackles loams the soil
And in the flounders – comes a thought
Tracking through the wilderness

It is is-ness and the rising string
That rings the thought through silent rounds
(still soundless, but being servile) to
The miles of the brilliances

And makes the illness twice its ease
But cobbles into sweet surrounds
Tries to ascertain the breeze
And pleases into desperate sound

Then framed a calling of the day,
It started ‘O’ and ended ‘A’

Adaptation: Tanikawa Shuntaro – 20,000,000,000,000 Light Years of Loneliness

Source

Mankind small on top of a ball
Sleeping, waking, and moving around
And sometimes wishing for a friend on Mars

Martians small on top of a ball
What are they doing? – Unknown to me
(Perhaps, hollying & shinnying & lallying around)
And sometimes wishing for a friend from us –
Or, surely – something along those lines…

Gravity all around is thus –
The pulling-merging force of our loneliness

The cosmos around is swerved in a slant
And thus – I wish to meet everyone

The cosmos is bulging in largeliness
And thus – I don’t think I can meet everyone…

While I fear in the light years of Loneliness
But – inside me – a sneeze & a prayer.

Cola Dream

The Coca-Cola boys are plugging their cans
With straws. They whistle bubbled carbon
(frothing suck) and make those eyes turn mad
At the beauties of pearls in whistling fizz –
O grand persist of a Sunday scene! How ‘lightful
The kids skid-skeedle-ling. Their trinkets bounce
To the bursting sun – bursting smiles & bursting fun!
Splotchy flowers lean their heads, as the boys suck on –
Playing manly with pipes. Playing fruit-music in carbon song
Whilst the pavements are puttering with sneaker sounds
Of thumping, the long slouch, and the twist
(Almost flipping) of heel to the heat. Frothy slap
As the boys suckle on sweet nothing-ness. Crumple –
And clank, into the garbage bin. Another one in!
Three and four – then fiery on – the manly parade
As though some watchers were girlies in skirts
Whist-whistling – and the hoopla-hoops!
A goatboy satyr at the helm – clopping feet,
He’s the leader of the pack, the shifty wise –
But otherwise kindly if you don’t lose his side.
They lead on. Through the springkept streets
And waddle like seals at the sight of more
Coca-Cola boys in bouncier suits. They slug
Around like mannekin hammers. One jingle!
One jangle! The crosseyed strings afloat
In the air – one down, two down! Who’s lost?
What a sound! Boys can only cry at the lost
Of a scuffle-loo. Still, it’s all expected – fun
And dream, in the head of a Cola kid
As the sun sinks low into the sky’s awesome buzz
And the dream jazz-singer plays Heart at Heart’s End
And the lone moon’s cry wodes into the stream
Of the big black-blue starry sky! One more day
Defeated then – boys can dream about songs
In hoopla-hoop – and fizzling froth.

Adaptation: Rimbaud’s Introduction to A Season in Hell

(Adapted /w Google Translate)

Then – if I know it well – I was a verse where the festivities churned – my heart was open… and over there, wines came & went & were gone. At dusk – I sat Beauty down on my knee – and found her bitter – and caused injury.

And I took arms – contra Justice!

And then I fled! O sorceresses, miseries, and the pain of hate! – It is to you the treasures I confide!

The paths I fared to vanish Hope – From my spirit! My life humane! And joy I choked with one swift bound – the rampage of a beast feral!

I call to the brutes in the hangmen masks – perishing… let me bite your guns! I call the plagues to muffle my cries – with the sands – with songs of blood! Maleficence was my God… as I lay down into the mud! I dried myself to the air of crime, and played my pranks till I went the fool!

And Time in Spring then brought along – the frightful laugh of idiocy!

But! In recent times, I found… myself on the verge of a last Croak! I mused to search for the ancient feast – a key, perhaps, to my appetite!

Charity was then the key! – the inspiration proved I dreamed!

“You remain hyena-like…” so cried the devil who coronated – such amiable poppies on my brow. “Gain death with all your appetites – your egoisms & capital sins –!”

Ah! Too much I’ve grasped! Alas…! Dear Satan… to you I implore – conjure a less blazing eye! While you attend to a few more of the spineless – the timidities I have delayed – you, who always admires a writer… so lacking in poesy & anything wise – I shall detach these few hideous… pages from my Libres of the Damned!

Adaptation: Rimbaud’s After The Deluge

(Adapted /w Google Translate – matched to sound)

And then – the Ode that were the Flood had ceased

The hare was arrested before the sunflowers & bellflowers shaking in breeze –

And prayed to the arc… a rainbow through the tollbooth of the Arachne!

O! Gems, precious, were earth-encased – and flowers already peeking!

Then, in the grand street soiled – the stalls were dressed and the barges pulled towards the sea – stepped as in the engravings!

Then the blood sank! In Bluebeard’s Tomb!… The abattoirs!… The circuses!… Where the seal of the Deus blinked through the folds – and where milk & blood were swirling…!

The beavers built. The coffee cups fumed past the café stools!

The grand mansion where the windows still streamed – past children in mourning who marvelled at things!

The door that was closed – and the Hamelin square – the child turned his arms! Along with the pirouetting vanes & steepled cocks everywhere – under the enchanting rain jubilee!

Madame X piano-played in the Alps, and the masses premiered with communions towards – the altars ten-million in cathedrale!

The caravans parted, and the Splendid Hotel – danced in the chaos and polar blizzards of the night!

And for since – our Luna listening to the jackals peering through the desert of thyme – has had the clog-foot eclogues grumbling in the vale!

Then – in the forests swathed violet, budding! Eucharis told me springtime had come!

Surge pond! Froth! – in rolls over the deck – roll over the woods! Black drapes & organs! Zap & Thunder! Mount and Roll-over! Spray the sorrows – and mount, risen, raise the Deluge!

Which, since, has dissipated… and Oh – the gems, once precious, are into the soil – and the flowers… they open! And it’s all Ennui! The Queen… the Sorceress who illumines a blaze on the cauldron – will keep to herself all herself as herself – and leave us silently in ignorance.