tom-collingwood

frivolous things

The blunders of man will end with me.

Oh the frivelous little things you say, darling, you simply must write them down! Write, write, write away my little turtle tart.

I am a conceited tart! A conceited tart!

Oh you do worry so, oh you simply do worry so. Don’t worry! Why worry?

A conceited tart I say, woman!

Woman? Oh my, don’t talk dirty.

A conceited tart, that looks a treat but turns to sourdust in the mouths of anyone but the tart.

A tart with a mouth? Well I’d gobble myself up.

Yes that’s precisely the point! I’d gobble myself up into oblivion! Oblivion. Where I will drown in my own seed.

Oh you do talk salaciously when I’m trying to gather up your self confience. Quite salacious.

Far from salacious, it will be a catastrophe of megalomanic proportions.

Such words, such interesting use of phrase, you belong on the stage!

No the stage will be my undoing. You think me a mess now, wait until I hear an audience groan when I step on stage. It will unwind me, my spool will runeth over.

Okay, so why won’t you write. You shan’t have to show it to a soul.

I have learned no lessons in my life, all the great writers in the world come with divine writing forged in the fiery torments of strife.

Now that’s a bit too wordy but you could always get an editor for a second opinion of your writing.

I know writers who won’t show anyone a thing and you only know they’re writers because you see them on the blue bird complaining of the block.

On the blue bird? Such fanciful phrasing.

Stop complementing me! Stop it! I can’t bare it! I’m a frivelous little man with frivelously little to say.

You seem to be dreadfully afraid of yourself, of becoming a sort of narccisus. I don’t see that in you at all.

Ah no, but In my mind, I see thoughts that compare, that judge, that raise myself above so many.

That can’t be true. You belittle youself too much out loud. It can even get a little embarassing.

Ah, it’s manipulation! I preempt any criticism! To be my own worst critic is my only respite.

a muddle is my mind

a muddle is my mind
filthy water to the brim

thoughts, slop
mouth gushes

toes wet, legs jelly
slip, fall upwards

crossed eyes, lids tight
vision scattered polka dots

when can i be
better not this or this

lips, smile, eyes bright
a wave hello

why cant i be
that and not this

how can i

how can i be present
when i can’t accept

how can i be kind
when i can’t love

how can i be at peace
when i am not here

how can i not
when i am

how can i
when i am

how i
when i

i
i

No, don’t say that

No, don’t say that.
That’s not what I want.
I brought up this, you should bring that.
You don’t look like you are here,
Your mind is still elsewhere

Put down your phone.
Be with me here.
See me.
Hear me.
Tell me you’re here.

I stutter, I splutter, I mish mash my words.
I fumble, I stumble, I spit out a mess.

How can any understand me.

I think, I flop, I race in my head.
I splish, I splosh, I cry and I weep.
I fart, I moan, I distract myself.
How can I ever know me.

Put down your phone,
And listen to me.

Put down your self,
And listen to me.

I’ll put down myself,
And listen to you.

I’m sorry I shouted,
I’ll listen to you.
If you’ll listen to me.

Oh don’t worry,
I was just being silly.
Just talking to myself.
Just alone with my words.

If I spent less…

If I spent less I could do this,
I could do that,
If I spent less I could spend more (later).

If I spent less I would want less,
I would want better,
I would want less.

If I want less, I would spend less,
I would want less,
I would want better.

If I don’t worry, I feel better,
If I feel better, I wouldn’t spend,
If I worry, I will spend less,
If I worry, I will suffer more,

If I feel better, I would spend less,
If I spend less, I would be better.

If I write poems, I would think clearer,
If I think clearer, I would spend less.

I have an obsession

I have an obsession about not being seen,
I have an obsession that I don’t need you,
To read my words. To read them here.

I have an obsession to write and to write, to put it all here.
I have an obsession to not care for hits,
Hits on a site, hits on a video, hits for self-esteem.

I have an obsession to write it down Quick,
I have an obsession to not really Care,
I have an obsession to not give much thought,
I have an obsession to be an anti-pErfecTioniist.

To come from the heart is to not be erased,
To come from the soul is to not be cut up,
For me to be true is to not play by rules,
Rules like rhyming, rhythm or verse.

Just to be true. Just to be true. Just to be true.
Let it flow, let it flow, out of your mind.
Let it flow, let it flow, into the void.
Onto the screen, and saved away publicly safe.

There’s something more

There’s something more,
Than this,
There’s that,
That – which is not,
But could be still?

There’s something more,
It doesn’t exist,
Only in thought,
There is no more,
This is just now (this) (this) (this) (this) and (this).

Better is thought,
Better is judging,
Better is denial,
Better is deluded.

This is real,
This sight,
This sound,
This feeling,
This taste,
This smell,
This touch,
This thought?
Well the thinking happens,
But the thought isn’t real.

I speak as if I know it all,
But it’s not so.
Because,
There’s something more.
I feel it deep,
I feel it here,
I feel it now,
Now could be more.
Now could be better.
If I were here, if I were now, if I were more.

The novelty of an alien mind

I have been looking around for any access to smart AI like GPT-3 – a text predictor mentioned in an earlier post. I got quite hooked generating fiction and poetry with it last year. Unfortunately GPT-3 is restricted to a waitlist and probably requires a business so you use it enough to warrant access (and more money). Also AI Dungeon (which uses/used GPT-3) has got kind of worse somehow since I last logged in (the subreddit is up in arms to say the least).

Then I started to question why I even got this AI fever to write with one. It has a certain novelty that doesn’t wear off too fast. It’s like an amazing illusion that I almost fall for that it is actually thinking like me.

I sort of compared it to if you heard the music of some alien civilisation. How amazing that would be, not so much because ‘we are not alone’ but more like ‘a completely different kind of being’ sort of thing. That’s maybe in the same area of my fascination with the predictor.

I listened to a similar predictive AI made by the same organisation, Open AI, here. This time it makes music. Again it was that very eerie feeling of novelty spawning from a black box. A box where no one knows exactly how it got to that output. I loved it.

Maybe I need to have more confidence in my own writing. Try to find the polish and value of it. No AI crutch needed! I should be more grateful for my own text predictive generator noggin.

Now

Hum of dimmer,
Heaviness of eyelids,
Coolness of aluminium,
Breath at nostril,
Tension in face,
Tingle behind ears.

Fogginess in head,
Impatience of thoughts,
Thinking from mind,
Annoyance of thoughts,
Sneezing from nose,
Laugh from mouth.

That thing you have to do

Oh that think you have to do.
You know the one…

That book you have to read,
the piano you have to learn,
the meditation you have to sit,
the meal you have to cook,
the language you have to learn.

To self improve is a struggle,
in which you have
that thing you have to do.

You may have your ideal self,
there within reach,
if only you had that skill,
were more learned,
had that something.

An ache
to be something more.

However it’s a shudder,
a piercing impatience held,
rattling in your mind.
Carving out that time for
that thing you have to do.

“Oh it’s worth it,”
you say to yourself.
“I will be better,
it will get better,
it has to!
I’ll learn to love it,
get that skill.
I just have to keep at it.”

But for now, it’s
that thing you have to do.