Quotes about replicate, page 5
Man And Woman: A History
1
a man is frothing history
a woman is the coalescing undying past;
and together rolling as the beast with two backs
from murky undefined time
they roll further into the cloudy distance
each brings in memories
and traditions and nuances
and each comes with a constitution;
each comes conditioned
each manufactured in the same factory, and both struggle
and there is just whingeing all their lives
a man is labeled
a woman is branded
and they are manufactured in sperm factories
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poem by Raj Arumugam
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Towers of Ivory
Subdued by the paregoric dream-land,
Your sleepy eyes stare into the nowhere
Flashing on the screen by buttoned demand
And cosmic transmission's continued care.
They'll feed you full of the barbiturates—
Hypnotic images made inculcate—
Just to keep you still and inscouciant…
Perhaps collectiv'ly agglutinant.
God bless them and their commercial glory—
Clearing the streets of all the miscreants—
So they could build towers of ivory.
Someday, you'll be packaged and maybe canned
In the aluminum chamber's stale air,
Controlled by the factory's firm command—
Which compresses you to the market square.
There, in process, you may capitulate,
Your core contained as pulp concentrate.
Saw the top off, keep yourself compliant
When you lose you lid, scalping salient.
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poem by Tim Stensloff
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Carrying Water To The Burning House
Carrying water to the burning house,
the bottom of the bucket falls out,
a ship on the rocks, a hemorrhaging bell
that broke one of the blood vessels
in its throat like a pipeline to its vocal cords.
I see a woman who went back into the fire
for her purse, her hands pleading against the window
like a Neanderthal cave painting,
melting into the glass like a fly in amber.
Charred vision of a dangerous day in the sunlight.
I don't want to be writing about this.
I want to be writing about red-winged blackbirds
swaying on the cattails like dozy metronomes
and something sufficiently eternal in the suffusion of sun.
Undisciplined, as if life were all I had to do.
Deep within me someone is angry and weeping.
There's a wound that wants to take over my mouth
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poem by Patrick White
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I Won't Turn The Shadow Of The Sundial Back
I won't turn the shadow of the sundial back
to replicate the asters that bloomed yesterday
and were lovely as the wrists of a child
playing with perfume in front her mother's mirror,
I remember, without wanting to turn them
again and again and again into a template.
I don't mind grinding the past
into a parabolic mirror to see where I've been
in the last fourteen and a half billion years
but as I get older, that isn't going to give me
an insight into the future of darkness
I'm rushing into like an accelerated fool
where the angels are not self-destructive enough to pass.
The most beautiful songs are sung in the dark
by the loneliest of creatures endangered by the night.
I've been a jumper for as long as I can recall
and sometimes it's sheer suicide, and others,
even though I don't pack a parachute for the fall,
it's paradise. No risk in your next step
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poem by Patrick White
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And There Are People
And there are people with glass blood and chalk hearts
who ask you to believe that razorwire is a grape vine,
and the moon nothing but a cold stone, half-people
in stolen straitjackets with secret agendas of blackflies
disguised as the smile of a leaf, passionless people
with the emotional life of an insecticide
who cannot understand they’re as transparent as larvae in a canning jar
though you’d think the way they verbally profess the light
they were apostolic butterflies. Look at a Dutch elm
smothered in the smog of gypsy moths to see what I mean.
From a mineral point of view, life lives off of life,
a type of organic perpetual motion machine,
a biological conservation of energy principle enacted
by the brutal genius of the uncompromising creatrix,
whatever form or name you attribute to that
which is without attributes, like starlight invisible until
it encounters an object, as we know the wind
by what resists it, as we know a lie
by the opposition of the truth. And just as I do a garden
where I always leave a little for the jays, deer, raccoons,
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poem by Patrick White
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The Issue
I see the sadness in the world, the malevolent madness
of the dogs of pain snarling at the moon in the tree of life,
the way people cut and claw and desecrate each other
and walk away as if there were a victory in the slaughter, a hero in the butchery
that hacks and packs the corpses in the shrieking streets,
the raped daughter, the man on his knees who bleats for mercy
from indifferent gods whose thunderbolts have changed to cattle-prods.
Little, petty people everywhere, runts of the heart and mind,
wee weak ones with the poison syrup of your smiles
distilled from killer bees, you who like to grind your heel into the human face
and celebrate your hydrophobic power as a state of grace,
I ask you here on planet earth, this dirty tear among the stars,
in this horrible hour between birth and death, are you a race
of vicious midget, spiritual pygmy, or emotional dwarf,
when you were given breath and blood and light,
were you an atrocity of genetic reciprocity, did you wince at the sight
of yourself in the mirror, repulsively queer and full of fear,
did your mother abandon you on a stone to rot,
give you to a circus, an abortion clinic, a church step, a garbage bag;
are you angry for all the things you know you’re not; do you gag
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poem by Patrick White
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Each Window Its Moon
Each window its moon,
and a thousand lakes around here
each wearing it like a medallion.
The spirit of a woman haunts me
as the starlings head for home
and I just want to go down by the river awhile
and sit among some companionable bones
while the daylilies tender their buds
to the hot night air, and the river runs by me
without any notion of what I see in it.
No waterlilies yet, but the wild irises
are protruding out of their blue green sheaths
like cartridges of lipstick, and the clouds clear
and the stars get me thinking about her again,
and all the tender lucidities held in abeyance
I would say to her if she were here.
My heart startles me and jumps like a fish.
The fireflies play a game with me
where I have to guess what constellation
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poem by Patrick White
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I Circumnavigated My Eyes
I circumnavigated my eyes
to wash these ashen rags of grief off
like the torn sails of the Magellanic Clouds.
I knew how deeply I was lost
when I set my starmaps afire
because they got in the way of the shining,
to give them a first hand experience
of lighting things up for themselves
like arsonists playing with draconian desire.
Took me years to get the last shadow
of your misdirected spearhead out of my heart,
make white noise out of the snarling chainsaw
that accompanied you like a seeing-eye dog.
At first the intensity of the pain
clued me forensically into thinking
the sheer immensity of your crime of passion,
the number of times you stabbed me through the heart
meant you loved me more than you cared to let on
but then I noticed all your knives were smiling
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poem by Patrick White
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Cloning Technology
Technology has turned reality into a paradox.
Forms are not always as they seem.
The struggle for non conformity
has become even more complicated.
Technology has learned to duplicate, rebuild,
and remanufacture reality and humanity.
The ability to take a template and replicate it
is not a fantasy anymore, it is a threat.
The struggle against conformity has become a
comprehensive investigation into technology
that works against the principle of individuality
and non conformity, CLONING TECHNOLOGY.
Humanity has become a relative term in the search for truth;
A search for clues.
A search for variables in life and mutation in a genus.
One will find that each form has been specifically
designed for the business of survival.
song performed by Fear Factory
Added by Lucian Velea
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Meditations In A Snake Pit Of Dissonant Wavelengths
Meditations in a snake pit of dissonant wavelengths.
An anti-Zen photo-op of enlightened dark energy.
Does a clean slate mean
there’s no starlight in the windows,
no fossils in the Burgess Shale,
no kings with any grave goods in any of these hills?
And I suppose I forgave you some time ago
but if I did
you’ll forgive me if I forgot.
Things have been intense over the past few years.
I’ve been living secretly underground like a nail
driven into the heartwood of an old growth forest
I don’t want them to cut down
whether it’s the tree on the moon
or Clayquot Sound.
Most people’s relationships
are mediocre books with purple passages.
Ours was a purple book with all the pictures torn out.
And that’s o.k. too, and that’s o.k. too,
and that’s o.k. too
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poem by Patrick White
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