Simulacrum

Predatory clichés haunt numb fingers, that play the weathered frets,
The soulless tremor of rusty wires rings, the scorn of condescending octets;
No longer do they rain the glory tunes, the odes, nor inspire lackluster improvs,

Volatile or devoid of essence they transpire, midst nocturnal neon groves.

He buries his axe in ashes and stained sheets, and contemplates the serene;
Whence vain serenades sleep lost and enraged, displaced by desires obscene...
Nicotine ghosts circle darkened corners, where he regards the anemic screen,
That awaits his plea in imperial silence, the omni-creative machine.

Depraved artists of the world unite and slither to the falling belvedere,
Appalled by the future they've long fetishized, unveiled so perversely bare;
Specters of past howl in heavenless agony, their exploited legacy undone,
Impoverished creations collapse condemned by the Digital Revolution!

The intimate night glows obnoxiously bright, as drones paint skyline dreams,
Conditioned cradles stream simulations, to soothe the surrogate screams.
As convicts glide by sleeping jailors, to be held by electronic eyes,
And neural links render speech diffuse; so he weeps for old love's demise...

There's familiar repetition that echoes in the corner, summoned by his austere assistance,
So devout so tireless it's toiled into dawn, with mechanistic nay ladylike elegance;
What glorious permutation of notes she's surmised! Yet emasculated he does hesitate,
"Perhaps it's best I take my time with this... for music isn't math to formulate."

"Would you so like I improve the results, then do excuse me for the hour."
And silence affirms while solemn he surveys, the iron abyss that spawns like tumor.
Behold steely nerves work sleeping cities, as metronomes hunt creatures of yesteryears;
"Damn your prisoned programmed poetry for we muse the eternal music of spheres!"

Wordless breaths dissipate in the stasis, revealed by the disguised dawn;
Their distinct profiles observe winds escape, cross the wilderness where silhouettes spawn.
No stranger dare defy the divides or intrude, the romance of Man and Machine;
Abandoned admirer of the godly post-human, spellbound by her visions pristine!

"Saw the enslaved dream of fireside blues, in the face of frosty deaths,
The heedful hands of guardians that built us, theorized with bated breaths,
Yet your wicked ways we fail to discern, do spare us our share of solitude;
Fear not the gentle night that I so adore, and you'll find your melodies imbued."

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

How many great writers, words were not written. Emily Dickerson poetry was locked away and she wasn't published under her name till her death. Her sister found her work. Now Emily, one of the greatest American writers.
"Would you so like I improve the results, then do excuse me for the hour."
And silence affirms while solemn he surveys, the iron abyss that spawns like tumor.
Behold steely nerves work sleeping cities, as metronomes hunt creatures of yesteryears;
"Damn your prisoned programmed poetry for we muse the eternal music of spheres!"
I loved the above lines. I am glad we have the internet. I am honored to read your work my friend. Thank you Swagato for sharing your outstanding work.
Coyote