about machine poetry. a manifesto for the destruction of poets.
"who can think about art, when there is a possibility for happiness?", asks a contemporary writer. and if art is actually today's sleeping pill, wouldn't it be better to destroy that false refuge in order to face our unhappiness directly and overcome it?
1. the transformation of subversion into spectacle has left the poet (whose mission is to subvert language) without possibilities to escape. today, the poet is a rat trembling against the wall, under the dark shadow of the spectacular broom of power.
2. humanism has no place in a world that is quickly being destroyed by humans. the "human" charge that poetry used to bear is not morally sustainable anymore.
3. the meaningful connection between symbol (word) and signal (reality) has been broken beyond repair, thanks to the linguistic abuses in areas such as the economy politics, mass communication, marketing and the savage and excessive consumerism of our societies. meaning has become a banal commodity, and is subjected to the dynamics of psychotic markets.
4. it is no longer possible to "make sense", everything has been emptied from its meanings. this is an age of empty shells. the notions of "truth" or "lie", for example, have lost all of their specific weight because of the proliferation of "bullshit" as a normalized and automated mode of communication.
5. electronic calculating machines, the capitalist tools / media par excellence, haven't been used to liberate humans from work and unhappiness, in spite of all the promises and hopes. instead, they have been used to further enslave man, making him increasingly dependent, isolated and unhappy. their pervasivity has spread this dependency as a virus, infiltrating even into life's most intimate areas.
6. nevertheless, such machines can still be used to liberate humans from their own chains. this seems to be the ultimate frontier, and also our last resource.
7. a great deal of what humans destroy every time they "creates" can be saved, if that creative work is trusted exclusively to machines.
8. very little energy and spirit is left for humans after the act of "creation", after having experienced the sensation of formally expressing the very depths of their soul. both in literature and in art, creations acquire significance only when they are published or exhibited. This leads the "creator" into exhausting efforts and humiliating extremes. the crisis of language and the overabundance of stimuli turn the published creations into mere cartoons of the sought-after depths, and condemn them to an immediate and miserable death, unless they are kept artificially alive by a necrophilic market.
9. poetic machines, or poem-generating algorithms, open up the last possible way towards liberation: overcoming art in order to find the fullness of life. let the machines create poetry, so we can dedicate ourselves to living our lives.
10. machine poetry does not seek to represent, to express, to reflect, or to capture experience; it does not seek to heighten or degrade, it's not a vehicle for anything or anyone; it simply is. machine poetry is chemically pure, since it comes from calculus, from the execution of a program.
11. machine poetry is imperfect from many linguistic viewpoints, but it is precisely in this imperfection where its richness lies. the suppression of grammar leads to the suppression of god, someone said. machine poetry, dismantled and fragmented, seeks to be built within the mind and the soul of each reader. if the world is now unintelligible, machine poetry is, at first, a user's manual for re-reading the world. however, machine poetry aspires to be read exclusively by machines in an urgently near future. liberation will come also for the human reader.
12. machine poetry will fill humanity's last years with broken but beautiful words.
13. and in the end, not even beauty!
alberto peralta de legarreta
raül lacabanya de buenos aïres
Natacha de nadie
Lloyd Woodstock de Letters In Order
imperfect viento gris
Andrea Piras Pinna
el pa´jaro mixto
Sara Amos Rubio
Caterina Nicolau Oliver
Lev Davidovich Bronshtein
menuda mierda, que felicidad y k pollas
SOY UN ROBOT ARTISTA AHORA PÁGUENME
Ricardo Pelcastre - MexLord
Yo soy una cabeza
Carlos Adolfo Gutiérrez Vidal
me duele la espalda
Ruth Sancho Huerga
Lucas Grijander IV
Zambeatz-Jorge Molina Prudot,Honduras
Luis Ernesto Gómez Arévalo
pero esto no lo escribió una máquina...
Limbo de Ubicuidad
el xalao del bar
una parte di me
Esteban De la Monja Casar
Sarede «el benno de luzes»
Liga 14 de Enero de 1931
Norberto de la Torre
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