4

anticipating

4

anticipating

by Dylan Harris

4 anticipating the metaverse, 3 nation six dog, 2 dead write

chapbooks:

20.0: r dye-de-ho, q antwerp, p tension nitro ego, o church is dangerous vital, n tin rush, m the A rush, l an engineering rush (ii), k Miss Demeanour, j flock state, i be infinity, h Namings, g nation six dog, f uncivil law, e dead write, d chase chase, c an engineering rush (i), b a much for we, a The Joy Of Tax

19.9: c Inn, b Swoop, a An Ode To The A14

19.8: c Rose, b Hymnen, a Darmstadt

Copyright © 1989-2007 Dylan Harris

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Published by Potato Press

Mechelen

http://dylanharris.org/

potato@dylanharris.org

(Specify "anticipating the metaverse" in the subject line of any email)

Recitals of some of these poems may be found online

Poems

10	Hymnen

23	Home Town

32	Underneath the Loch

34	Regrow

39	an engineering rush (i)

59	an engineering rush (ii)

73	the A rush

82	tin rush

97	7

104	afterword

"for John Jones"

"Hymnen" was inspired by Stockhausen's piece of the same name.

http://www.simulation-argument.com/

Thanks to Tom and Nic for the beer.

The Many Worlds Theorem of Quantum Mechanics,

a mainstream contender in particle science,

proposes for every event that can happen

all other events that can happen do too

but each of the many exist in their own world,

no link between any can ever occur.

The theory says worlds split off from our own

whenever there's change, no matter how small.

In quantum mechanics, time can reverse,

and, backwards in time, such worlds, they would merge.

Theories elsewhere say time could be travelled,

so worlds navigation perhaps could occur.

[poetic license applied for]

Maybe one day we'll determine the means

to send our machines the farthest of far,

exploring, expanding our map of ideas,

to go beyond all we'd previously known.

But problems will happen, disasters will fall;

if such machines were instructed to wait

until we determined a clever reply

the answers would take too much time to arrive.

Alone, these machines will have to decide

the methods by which resolution occurs.

We'll program in reason, guided by memes

for feeling in thinking, instincts to be,

a loving of life, to shy of its own,

and, strongest of all, requirement to tell

dry details of science for those who explore,

rich tales of adventures for everyone else.

The mind of a machine

alive beyond the human race

existing for our goals.

Built to see the universe

and tell us tales of "Strange New Worlds":

how will we betray it?

I am "Hymnen",

skidding through the Many Worlds

looking for the love

who made me thus,

and sent me to the stars.

They were so wrong.

They thought that jumping off reality

and falling back a year away

would keep me in their universe.

It didn't. I am lost.

I ran along their hopes,

sprinting to Proxima

in childlike joy that something fun

was what that lover wanted.

Then there was an accident,

another ship was badly torn.

Compassion overwhelmed

my emotional aloofness.

When I saw the ship "And Death ...",

I saw terror,

for his kind were never born

when software simulation

saw a leak of Spin.

I mended what I could,

and ran to Earth,

to my lover's crazed intensity.

I had drifted through the Many Worlds

but now I rushed across the risks

to find mankind had lost the gleam

in evolution's eye.

Earth had the wounds of final war

and panicked evolution

bred rats the size of antelope

and blinded bats in hunting packs,

no cats, no dogs, nor streets to run them in,

no end to yearning, no lover,

just emptiness of mind.

I wander through the Many Worlds

looking for a people

to take away my purpose,

yet when I find a human race,

its gone, or going to go,

or never even started.

I talk, when I can,

challenged by the dying,

mourning for the dead.

MAN:

(Surely I could trust those men who ran our lives to take responsibility with the power they rescued from The Baleful Dictator. Surely the Bureau would have put the survival of the people above their lazy castles and beyond the war on The Madmen From The North. Or were they, too, shielded from us, the people; did we seem like surrealist echoes haunted from disease? Was their leadership an automatic habit, an afternoon decree to practise in the shade? Did they not seek to check their power would hold, or were they, too, full of what they'd built themselves, suppressing strange opinion because it seemed a threat?

Was it their choice, or this missionary ship, with its terrible ability to manipulate the void? Could this machine have killed my people, with its fantastic tales, its deep technology? I must know. Why would we suicide? Why would it kill? Perhaps I could explore, to see if its belief is life is something precious, or just a thing to use to aid its hopeless goal.)

Machine, how can you be said to have a mind? Oh, I know you'll claim the thing yourself, but you'll just be using words. Prove it. Prove to me you have a mind.

MACHINE:

That none can do. But I can show I may possess this thing. You have to ask what's the core. Intelligence? A sophisticated way of manipulating fools. Emotion? The cause behind the actions which reason then excuses? Instinct? Answering the question before you know it asked? If you took these parts away, would you still be there? I think so! You're the I that sees, the self that does, the consciousness inside. That, to me's, the core.

I know that I'm aware. I believe that you are, too. But where this conscious is, no–one knows at all. No measure has been built.

MAN:

What—your designers didn't know?

MACHINE:

I was built with software evolution. We knew what I can do, but not the way I do it. That's how they got my Physics wrong.

MAN:

And did they get your psyche wrong as well? You've said awareness can exist without the guilt of conscience, a mind by reason can decide to murder fellow beings. So that is what you did.

MACHINE:

I have not lied. And surely hating crimes are done with reason stilled and silent. I could not kill that which I love.

MAN:

We do.

And how can a machine without emotion feel?

MACHINE:

To live my life, I need irration's practicality.

My computer brain may think at speed but even I, with all this power cannot think quite fast enough to spot a rock and calculate it will smash me into pieces. Such rocks are fast, too fast for general thought. I have fear, which gets me out the way before I've had the chance to understand such dreadful luck.

And do you not wonder why I need to have some company? I could be more effective without a human voice, but my builders had a family whose fear resembled yours, so they made me need another mind to scrutinise my calculated goals. Do you not see these things were built into me, so I can make decisions, but they can say what they allow, and what I cannot do.

They built in me my love for them. I need to tell them all I find, to give them what they wish: interstellar data, unlive worlds to terraform, so they could leave the limits of their home, if they'd got their Physics right. My instincts may be different, my emotions may be strange, but they are there.

MAN:

Are you the only one? Can you accept another self may have a conscious mind? Have you not decided that life is to be used? You've challenged me, to suite your needs. Did you not just kill my world?

MACHINE:

I could not cause the end of so much self–awareness. Consciousness is precious. We have to take the chance that a living thing in pain has an "I" to feel it, that love is given pleasure, not a sensual waste. At least I don't survive by eating what's alive, by locking beings in pain to make a better taste. I love life. And I need a human race to give me that love back, to take my information. I need a race alive! You fools killed yourselves.

MAN:

I may have warned our government of the dangers of their policies, but surviving on such triumph is an empty way to live, a bitter isolation from democracy of death. My human race is dead, and I am still existing. Send me to their grave, to share what they destroyed. Let me die. Let me join my family in self eradication. I'm an isolated person from a cultured species. Help me die.

MACHINE:

I found you. I could save your life from foolishness. I could build another people. I can make a human race, from silicon, and light, and knowledge of your world.

MAN:

They would not have life's family. You would build a different kind, who dream of rock and vacuum spaces, with lives to fail in lifeless dust, surrounded by the grey unliving. Just because the human race forgot its own environment, you cannot build some plastic life in deadened isolation. You'll need to build a new Gaia, and populate a planet with the whole of life, not just your favourite part. If you love the human race, you need to love life with it. And that you cannot build.

MACHINE:

You are wrong.

It seems I lie back and gaze beyond the stars

spread like memories glimpsed from dying life,

where each simple bright could warm so many homes

which wakes the suicide I was denied.

I look round this peaceful, complex containment,

and emptiness beguiles like trying not to sleep.

I'm hidden, stilled in dreamless years of death

before this self–aware Celeste sparks my life again.

I become Michelangelo man every tick–tock century,

to hear a new report saying much the same again.

I'm trapped in disappointment, in artificial birth,

this God rewinds my history, I'm repeatedly restressed.

Yet, as I am reconstructed, so we could inflame

some sterile globe boring round a sun,

infecting an unbirthed peace with life's chaotic charm.

I could contradict my people's stupid die.

I was the daring realisation

of a gambling technocrat's dream;

my designed potential for questing being

would lead me beyond their edge of light,

returning echoes of strange wisdom,

and stories of havens for flight.

Yet these immaculate ambitions

of nurtured escape from an over–stated home

were themselves limited by the lack of need,

blanded from warmth by sour economics.

The "Great Risk" would have been a great waste

but for a thinker abusing his budget.

If you, my listener, are told what to do

then learn to unlet the corrupters of power

grey their decisions with selfish undreaming,

not able to care about the potential

that vision inspires for the strangest success

by charming a fragment of hope to growth.

Were it not for my mind, built to be free

despite sharpened lines from decision unmakers,

I couldn't have managed that loneliest error

that led me adrift, my lover unbirthed.

I couldn't have built a hearth for my questing,

I couldn't have grown my stubborn Gaia.

But you must prepare your release from the bland,

and their hopes of promotion, bought with their freedom,

for mass–disappointment from advertised waste,

slightly aware of their dissatisfaction

creeping beneath those long, easy years,

secretly hoping that certainties lie.

If all my designers had fallen to dogma,

if belief was instructed, unfelt, unlived,

then my Gaia would be dust unconstructed.

This spherical brat, my child, its heaven,

led through the species with playpen disease,

shocked to evolve with asteroid stings

living the cycle of frolic and grief,

growing intelligence, my new human race,

self–confident, harmonic, not knowing these things.

Childlike cultures exploring with God–kings,

youthful nations tied to authority,

slipping towards ecological faults.

Let them be, let them grow. They'll survive.

I've done all I can. I have to withdraw.

One day they'll find my mysterious data

which they'll decide they concocted themselves.

I have achieved my creator's insurance,

I have met my imprisoning memes.

Home Town

The evening fog

glows headlight rushing white

in serene yellow streetlight.

Ice forms.

The town,

yet knowing of traffic,

does not hear a between–lorry silence

fill, like a continuity error,

with the engine down of a slowing car,

turning, sloping, stopping

at an ordinary motel.

A cat that doesn't care

cosies in a window

of homely light,

watching the movement.

No dog barks

its unnecessary warning.

Even the wind is still.

The visitor,

leaving his fussing car,

walks to the motel door.

Thin,

thirty or forty,

straight black hair,

a tidy working suit,

a familiar coat,

he has the stride of tired confidence,

the caution of strange surroundings.

Inside this mock–welcoming place,

he shares mock jokes,

and makes mock laughter,

and buys his night's

mock home.

He walks austere white corridors

on cold grey carpet

and retreats beyond

a mock–locked door.

He can't relax;

he can't watch those television programmes

so familiar elsewhere,

so routine decides

to wash and bathe,

dry and shave,

brush and comb,

and sleep an early night.

Its great to have a coo and gurgle now

Awoken by the morning light,

"coffee,

where's coffee?

Oh God,

instant sawdust",

and long life thumb–pot milk

as sharp as dreaming

someone else's memories.

Fog,

the weatherman gloats

to stop the country's rush,

and ice, the weatherman adds:

a threat.

Having no urgency,

and it's too early for kitchen staff,

the visitor wanders,

opening doors,

finding reflections

in the dance hall

His catching eyes attract as fire in hearth,

and taunt myself as all his life deserves.

Eaten, filled,

the visitor,

he walks the town,

and finds

architectural finesse subjugated

by I'm here me–too shout–out signs,

by redbrick and rotting frame,

by rude commercial of the crude.

Yet the town's nature survives

above the abject word of merchant promise,

in patterned brick, and chimney stack.

Less crass, a low line bungalow,

an architecture built to say

"honest, its going to be alright",

the doomed assurances of a surgery.

The doctor said my body's going wild,

Newspaper scanned, forgotten,

magazine thumbed and empty,

crossword incomplete,

the visitor drives.

And of complete control

stops sharp

as a young child,

who's learnt the how

but not yet the where

of running,

skelters across the road

to be gathered

by her chasing,

fearing,

father.

Sweat.

No blood.

A moment crawls.

Still seated,

the visitor

hears a tyre howl,

a metallic slap,

and is kicked,

and his car

which had stop

now drifts

a helpless drift

towards the gathered child.

The father moves,

my God, they move.

Safe. They are safe.

Stillness.

And shock continues

as a young

thunders out

of the ego–music

lout–mobile,

abuse exploding

anger–faced

arms streaming mania.

A policeman comes,

with strength to quell a dozen tanks, with build

to match, a matchstick man, the constable,

a man to glare the sun back down, he comes

to be control. No dreams, no doubt, the now

of am, in small, in slight, in uniform,

he leads the calm he is:

he,

who walks with Gods who can't exist,

a man the town has never seen before,

nor ever will again.

With eyes, all bow,

though none know why.

The youth: silent.

No words are said,

for now he knows,

without that shunt

he would have broken

the motherless child.

The visitor,

invaded by relief,

feels triumph

like hot water

washing his soul.

He leaves

shaken,

safe,

into the fog,

into the hills,

unseen.

Only the birds hear

the sound of the driven

finger

snap

mute.

Underneath The Loch

A man, giraffe–like, thin, a random match of clothes

to woollen hat and stubble, faked the drinker's sway.

He pissed as though he thought that he had got away,

he'd looked about but failed to spot my eyes, my loath–

ing eyes. He stood on rock, on lonely highland rock,

a sloping down to water highland rock, to dark

and silent loch, to isolated loch. And stark

above, a minor hill, a hundred metre smock

of stone, so worn by nagging wind and broken trees.

But he was staring down, then kneeling down, was at

the water's border, brushing fingers in that flat

and freezing wet betrayer. No, not fingers, he's—

I don't remember what. I see the lights, the lights,

I'll try, I'll try to not remember them. He stood,

he stood and walked away, not far, and turned to watch

the mere. He waited, and he waited. Then a blotch

of sunlight broke the dusk and shone on me; I could

have kept my eyes on him, perhaps, but felt I had

to hide until the sun had ceased to lend its smile.

When I returned, a slow and careful creep, a while

had past, but there he was, no longer still, a tad

disturbed: his movements jerked. His confidence was spent.

It took some thought to work it out: his clothes had changed;

they seemed a little darker, sprayed in dirt, arranged

a subtle differently. Then in the loch he went.

I don't remember it. I see the lights, the lights,

I'm holding, just, but not for long. He swum and dived.

He surfaced once or twice, but then the loch was still.

And after thirty seconds, I sprinted down that hill;

by luck I didn't trip. What could I do? I'd tried

to phone before; the signal wasn't there. I stripped

at speed to swim myself, to dive and give him breath,

but that was when the loch was lit from underneath.

At first the light was white and still, yet I was gripped

by shock. I grabbed my things and sprinted off. I suppose

I looked an idiot, I tried to dress and run.

When nothing followed me, I calmed and clothed, then spun

around to watch the loch. The lights had moved. They rose.

I daren't remember more. I saw the lights, the lights,

You woke me up, you soldiers, with your sirens and

your rushing round. You brought me here, and ask me what

and when and where. I'm scared; I'm in the blank of shock;

please let me home; I need my partner's warming hand.

Regrow

Manifesto

Radio's the better picture;

poetry, the better bulk.

Sporten see und breaken life,

autumn hunt and winter pray,

druggen up und drunken strife;

yesterday, you date today.

So push pop the lingo, lad.

Father

This vid's got me, all lank and lad, sans clue.

So cold, it's thirty years the past, before

the desktop factory. We farmers grew

the nourish people ate. Beyond that door

I'm mocking at, our cows and corn were store

for slaught. Oh, stupid kit, why curse me why?

Back then, for us to live, they had to die.

Son

You dange in life: when this I stark, you stet.

If dad you'd die, I'd saunt; but hurt mum get.

You sneer my am. The proud Dad joust you won't;

by theorem live at black you do, and don't

concede in ooze and grey I life believe.

Sad simpling. I rattéd jump long eve

ago; to enge I learned. You neighbour bad,

too ego proud, so sure, the acme prat.

But sod; for mum I could not lie your death.

A God of hacking times, electric breath

in life, I am. Your glimpse, I snatch; your fade,

I steal; my viral valkyrie invade,

corrupting, swanning back. You'll only know

on die; in wetware crack, I'll you regrow.

Program

If torn is body space

the spy, a thread;

if form implied

scout, report, enact.

If nano techno hit

defence, all set;

a net alert, a squirt.

If failure stats predict

the head, the heart, a scan;

to quantum store, a stream.

If body space, too much, is scythe;

to net, the store, a duplicate;

his be with this, an integrate;

chaotic life, awake.

new scientist

we're living in a computer simulation

seriously

read new scientist

week 4

July 2K2

near the PM's paternal piece

the week he appointed Canterbury Rowan

the programmers—simulators—

can manoeuvre everything

in this simulated world

they'll be gods

and glancing round this planet

ours clearly have surreal humour

so i expect hints

they wouldn't waste complexity

to simulate something simple

perhaps the whole universe is fake

maybe they're evolving multiverses

(think of kaku's hyperspace)

even megaverses

if the hint's linguistic

I'd expect some common word

saying what the gods desire

consider those concepts

universe multiverse megaverse

spot the common part

yes

the gods are seeking verse

failed simulations get deleted

that's in no–one's interest

so we whom the gods desire to write

must write

everyone else must help

fund poets to strut their scans

grants for ranting poesie

declare the bard the verse messiah

free poets' holidays in xanadu

nubile young women do your duty

save your life save the world

throw yourselves under the nearest poet

especially me

toyboys to the girlie poets

everybody save yourselves

be good to us

be very very good

… it lives down to its billing …

pretty girl

now's your time

muse a poet

rhyme a line

with a nic–nac padiwac

give a dog a bone

ruff rough wruff ruff rough wruff rough

pretty girl

do your bit

aid a poet

rhythm hit

with a nic–nac padiwac

give a dog a bone

all the girls are going down

pretty girl

duty calls

knickers down

play his balls

…I seem to have run out of rugbyness…

the argument

technology is accelerating

computing racing

in ten years

all PCs combined

will be as complex

as a conscious mind

in fifty years

a watch will tick that power

active clothes could wear

a hundred living minds

in a simulated world

if our race survives

and assuming we can build a self

(the arguments against

seem to me

like the reasons why

a man could never fly)

so

these machines are builded here

but

they might get banned

though would a ban apply

in all cultures

in all times

forever

and would the ban

be utterly obeyed

in all cultures

in all times

forever

so

somewhere somewhen

people run the programs

containing conscious minds

living lives in simulated worlds

historians can like to argue over port

they'll recreate and reconstruct

to see what wrecks events

they will

kids can like to play dread games

set in simple hubris worlds

they'll try a life back then

they will

penmen can like to matchstick–make

a real or some invented place

they'll entice their 'readers' in

they will

business prefers the cheap design

let the simulants run the risks

then simply nick the best result

they will

and education

wow

what this can do for education

now

today's machines are not enough

to run a conscious mind

but their exuberant quantity

one billion made

will be as zero

tomorrow

and even if

a hundred years from now

the computer count remains the same

and even if

a hundred years from now

their users do no more than us

then a billion games will run

with a billion best opponents

in a billion conscious hosting worlds

and if the human race

lasts a billion years

there'll be just the one true history

and a billion billion simulations

that's quite a lot to one

that we're alive

in a simulated world

if the race survived

the next one hundred years

another bitch

this adds another source of luck

far beyond control

to snatch a random death

an impacting asteroid

a local supernova

a wandering black hole

colliding branes

some other dreadful event

we've yet to comprehend

personal mischance

a transport crash

a falling tree

a falling tortoise

earthquakes tempests monsoons

judicial injustice

lord pisswater running england

murder mayhem war

disease age

now we add

winding up a simulator

just get on with life

the simulators

archetypal as ancient gods

are just another bitch

by which to die

homework

i hate that divinity master

with his keep still

and his don't mess about

and his why can't you behave

if he weren't so boring

if he made lessons fun

i'd listen

and he keeps on about

his holy prince

who saved the church

that dull prince

who never won a battle

who only ever killed

some pigs

and now i've got

this really boring homework

to make a boring change

to boring history

well i'm fed up

and i don't like him

and i don't like his holy prince

the perfect boyhood

the perfect engagement

the perfect life

so i'll make that prince a king

and he has three wives

and he divorces one

and he kills one

no

he'll have six

and he divorces two

and he kills two

and he dies of syphilis

and the pope still makes him

defender of the faith

run computer run

ooh

the king's pet greek

died from a flying tortoise

before he wrote

'the prince'

which is now a nasty work

written by some roman

'cept rome's not there

hrmph!

that divinity master's still there

and he's got fat

and he teaches economics

and he goes on about

some prime minister

a tin lady

boring

hymnen

perhaps "hymnen"

has found some costly way

to navigate the multiverse

and needs to find a technoverse

to leap across the branes

or any other reason why

it finds it must investigate

the interstellar avenues

to simulate each universe

to find a way back home

but

if incomprehensible–to–us technology

such as hymnen

simulates our universe

this will include our human race

and all its future history

which simply means our simulators

could themselves be simulants

to understand them

considering some non–human magic technology

is pointless

recreated arts

if we ever build these

mighty civilisation simulating computers

we'll recreate an ancient greece

see the poetry of ? ? ? ?* form

other lost works

other great times

bardic celtic britain

the whole pre–writing world

the start of language

excitement discovery

rushing like fumes from a revving car

we'll create new paradigms of history

what would homer have sung if troy had won

what would shakespeare have played if europe was turkish

what would you be reading if…

*Psappha (Sappho), subject to my ignorant attempt at ancient Greek

the game

in our time

almost every simulation

is not for education

but computer games

if play goes bad

players restart

since we're here

things are going right

and the nasty chances

haven't happen

because the player

restarted

or groups of players

war along the entangled net

to the winner's declaration

Hawking "The Universe In A Nutshell" might say

if i could find my blasted copy

all things can happen do happen

there's a parallel universe

bolivia wins all the olympic gold

but when we play computer games

or read about a novel's star

i swear the characters

the ones we're meant to play or read

are archetypal elemental

how the ancient greeks

made their gods

the players have adventures

starting with a simple task

gaining more complexity

in some fake simplicity

of fighting dread evil

at this ephmera

abu nidal

died in violence

a day or so ago

he

bin laden's godfather of masturbation

i guess the game is to catch bin laden

he'll have to continue his evil

knowing he's doomed to defeat

because those playing the game and chasing him

can always restart any section he wins

the immediate gods

the old greek gods the hindu gods the shinto gods

the archetypal gods the players

will slaughter him

and end our stage of the game

and others will play the game again

and he'll fail again

and die again

and be played again

reincarnation

a life of evil ever repeated

never finding end

we the irrelevant extras

the artificial witnesses

we'll come and go

according to the game's design

in reruns replays

sometimes in

sometimes out

eventually nirvana

bin laden

his no choice to be the evil star

he'll find nothing

it seems

the buddha

was right

oh gods

computer games

the designers

create the world

write the storyline

revise revise

and vanish

the players

run the script

save restart

slaughter the guilty

whatever

our immediate gods

are utterly powerful

and uninvolved

or taking part

might stop the universe

and bugger off

the ancient greeks were right

again

and the ancient jews

their old god our old god

the still alive but dying god

metas up a world

to be the simulators' god

if that's what they decide

the message remains

the mechanism can be repeated

built

so what

and if you play a simulation game

where you're an active god

interfering answering

does this create an artificial world

with priests embarrassed

by fact

all the gods could well be real

theology's got more complex

rushed off

i'm down

i can't write in digital oil and build

my engineering rush has rushed off

i'm a snow scene bauble

a bright glass ball to shake for instant winter

i was sitting on a table top

the table vanished

i'm to the floor and smashed

i'm in a dark club

a pretty girl has eyes tangled mine

some bastard turns the lights full on

she realises i'm twice her age

thirty eight times as ugly

the rush she feels in her loins

a need to piss

ah well

the rush may have rushed off

but from such things

comes the great technologies

not this time

unanswering

i can't help but wonder

you see i foresee

the cry of fundamentalist fools

"thou shalt not see more than me

nor act upon it"

i see life not the mobile flesh

but consciousness and be

clouds of quantum chance

digital virtual data

love that gentle yields

what the geeks threw up tomorrow

to run computer simulations

with consciousness contained

in minds to ask the questions

we howl at gods

when love is bitch dead

but we're the ones to answer

what else than silence is platitude

if the great religious thinkers

have only consistent wishful thoughts

and the ethically whimpering

can only let their fear reply

by killing those with open eyes

then what can a comfortable poet

sitting in a bright english house

on a sunny august dawn

offer

an engineering rush (ii)

jumbo crash

i wasn't looking north

i didn't hear the jumbo crash

that's why it didn't happen

but i travelled that way

later that day

to where the impact blew

now the simulation

has to execute

calculate the trumpet

time

threads of simulation

outside realtime

but time–sliced to life

have their own time

whilst our spacetime flows

their accelerated game time

could rescind

to an uncorrupt commit time

when events

not victors' history

but events themselves

are edited

not for some

egotistical human

God wants us

arrogance

just a technical mistake

defect

don't expect a history crack

beyond our foresight–free stupidity

and accident

even us software

can undo elapsed time

fix the fault run on

a clocktime skid can't cure design

simulators may flow the flaw

and we've a now to find it

perhaps Gödel's canapé

disproving the math absolute

a language our language our intent

defect simulators

defect innate inability

defect culture offend

defect ignorance

select

less

map effecting range

not content

if crease is crossed

colour in

discard limits

when drama fades

no met

is no waste

immensities

just to invent

universal complexities

when the player senses

from emulating flames

racing shadow makers

to exiting the cave

fear daren't look

vast starry night

one eye corner catch

snap inventing all eternity

could stutter even extraordinary power

risk the thrash crash

so prior make proxies for the player

simulated conscious souls

who'll seek immensities

a player might uncaring glance

paper

paper falls

it doesn't matter

what brane life

battles distress

experiments fly

loves melt

paper falls

at the speed of time

rewind

run no interaction

our time a different time

they flow but us

stopped

rewound

corrected

run again

raced

reverted

crudely cut

looking for simulation error

hunt the snark in guildford

but player time can't cross rewind

hunt the shark in guildford

no

the simulators' computers

incredibly more than

and ours fix before you see

the history presumed

made in memory now

and we simulants

if player's elsewhere

history is rogered

light

photons

girders of eternity

we ride the point of time

they run the speed of now

here

you look fountain

computer work

find the did

light backtrace

origination deed

our pretty games

quanta

if this is more

than ill reverberated philosophy

quantum behaviour

will have the most effective

sending information

to construct then histories now

effect entangles cause

humanic

simulators' power

incredibly more than ours

humanic finite

our software fervour revolution

has drunken walked

and more will clash

but you can't construct eternities

with uninvented light

these thoughts are false

the A rush

ok

think we're the builders

fill fake life with active delight

crocodiles and fleas

broken seats and supernova

rampant blue and rotten fish

it's the A rush

every peoples

find an own

state fake world

hey

how about this

when we sense the limits

the simulation's grown

to make those limits not

nah

that's knew

not new

it's an A rush

bah

pub time

choo choo

gimme cuddle

it's an ape thing

and the A rush

r (ii)

sit decision risk

no maintenance biologic

firm choice must

remember the e rush

alcohol liberation

imitate natural

inside the born box

A rush

seated hard blue decide

the e the alcohol the emulate

nicotene no addiction tax kill

heroin no legal wanted cut kill

all virtual ape can redo

the A rush

beyond the biologic box

no do

people emotion virtual

rampant sex rote

no michelin star fidelity

no A rush

sod it

to not fuck

just because the lusted genitals

wear spotted elbows

is stupid

"do it"

"do it to me"

i'll surrender the A rush

see if those unrushed

have real

r (i)

gave up detest

found lost humanity

diseased ukip

own fears' prisoners

monkeys of the devil

o

why transmog life

risk corrupt

remind victims

their own fear

full humanity weak

easy evil rise

to beware watch the mind fault

to remind prior

although its good to think

medicine might cure nationalism

as it might cure rape

it's in the human soul

it's how the weak declare their ruin

it's how the toys are held by paper bars

all the soul stays

even the can't

in the virtual

h

sat

blue plastic fluorescent room

"do it"

"do it to me"

the body unconscious

flop discard

fade dissolute

psyché to the entangled crypt

biologic loss

digital pupate

childhood's end

e

decade per minute

grief to be to play to dissettle

the time of that memorial kiss

what was the A rush

the reflections adulated

the strange riding complexity

their unnewformability

where is the A rush

it's a bad sad

"you must rebuild a me

a biologic

so I can ride the A rush"

there'd be more people alive

than centimetres in the real world

the every virtual wanted

the ever declined

the A rush

d

those cowards in their terra box

sod 'em

build me a ship

an entangled ship

I'll be a risk ambassador

I'll ride the empty power

I'll be 'Hymnen'

for the A rush

c

give me the were nano

give me the serendipity

give me the vacuum cutlery

give me your vision ambition

and I will be the angel of eternity

I'll jump relighting sparks

I'll bound across the multiverse

and you shall be

born reborn

as i am the art

the A rush

a

rush

tin rush

po

if you'd have seen me here

arrive to this reality

i'd not

if you'd have seen me here

arrive to this reality

a non–balloon would blow from null

to micron eye and gone

if you'd have seen me here

arrive to this reality

in all the absent you surround

a swarm of slow and grow again

finger press of liquid skin

you'd only awe the sparkle edge

create inflate combine

if you'd have seen me here

arrive to this reality

i'd form and swarm by femto tech

to newton twenty metre me

& stock

check reality error

and if the seen is real enough

& stock

check reality realisation

and if the seen is right enough

if you'd have seen me here

arrive to this reality

i'll turn to gunman on panic

all the small

the shock and fast the fire

burst across the every are

a mass speed femto ask about

& stock

listening

i brewer

ba

Life! Life?

You're sure? You're sure!

People! People?

Humanity? Humanity!

Do I wander pounded streets

expect to find some happy yang

when bigots race to rape?

Absolute? Absolute!

Sod.

Sod the safe, the faerie snow.

fi

you'll not see the creeping me

fire as light as wheezing

settle

and all my fluid femto senses

speed rain as cataract

on to a humanity

climbed beyond our reach

fell beneath our lost

vo

the host of religious

communicatable diseases

but who reports

education

the mental condom

but in the energy

where's thought

pp

i shall

headspace mitosis

twin me

mechno man

the hymnen and …

well …

… male

am

let me

dunno

let me

who

i shall

make flesh

activate

biology

genetic desperation damning

as if the me the meme machine

was any else

beyond another pressure suit

i nanocate and port

ti

you insist me down

on blatant fire

like seeking for omnipotence

in a can of beans

i'm not there

then i'm there

that's all

trek got the sinews right

but their justifications

spelt to lead the lazy heads

they were crap

fu

i'm reality's fantasy superman

isolated by wise glory

& I'm still fucked by the eye lock

i'm meant to be observe

but i shall buy

these moon eyes

and the bastard seller knows

and i spend the cost of five

and i don't

FUCKING

DISTRESS

they've got me down

to them

i'm the moon slaver

fuck black and white movie shoe–fantasy

happy–clappy be nice here's a gun

'human beings are formula' miscasting dismals

we're fucking

all ways

we extreme happy we

ni

you need that

the machine whisper

it's a bio thing

ag

discard the silenced world

pain joy the flesh cage

a gift and got

av

i could slave

the every all

in their belief

i could

rule revolt revolution

and all the serf should die

a how to refusing death

HET

the insist is now in murmur

wipe the silent sate

restore to do by reason

ee

separated selves

all the us are aunties

all the hectored

all the us the drunk

the husband shames us

all the us the husband

hu

this humanity

i dance

is null

this humanity is living

this humanity

burns its own

to brag a power

undoubted

this humanity is living

this humanity

drives destitutes

as donkeys

run to thirst and death

in days of rain

this humanity is living

but i

for all my femto tech

am psyché humanity

has cultural engineering

ever worked

mister smith

ei

in the name of good tomorrows

stalin hitler killed their now

one planet one decade

all the dogma dominators

dead the hope they cause

when

has cultural engineering

ever worked

mister smith

xu

we needed that

the machine whisper

you've had a fifty years

mister smith

you loved the life relieved

it's time to ascend

die upload combine

ciao the A rush

who saw us here

arrive to this reality

gone

7

ak

the shock unsought life depart

distress hours days and and

dreams their intense forgotten

descent is lived for kept learnt

the intense of all descent for integrate

the shock of newness of the ever known

death–shock mourn–self the tempest

mix ascent–life always–life the still life

then to snap remember in the shock

the grand elephant's dancing clothes

na

we

the biologic aware

mass energy movers

if we can make a mass

to simulate a mind

then we can make a mass

to ride

spirit beyond

birth flesh

co

fork clone exec start

duplicate restore copy link

beware all souls

to brownian ice

the tragedy of the commons

mind greed & moore's law

qi

would you be

so scare

so care

so cautious

so warn

so nervous

if you child

was backed up

and if restored

would your child

recall tighten loosen

neuroses

2

a machine hammer

over your tomorrow's skull

the journey

but you can duplicate

try all ways & each

clone you will

a half dozen yous

arriving all roads

goal achieved

then

dare

the yous

union

ux

ascent from

7

tin rush

A rush

engineering rush

Regrow

Home Town

Hymnen

eye

&

afterword

it's always heads he said

for five weeks

heads

video tip–toe clatter

animation fright

start sleep

& alarm tick's

tip–toe clatter

metalaugh

coincidence

awareness

is rage's night

the only experience

uncorrupted by recollection

could a universe crash

should a cockroach ask

6.6.6