Monday, November 30, 2020

Ilker Artiran, Ice Part, #2

self portrait of eidolon demiourgia 
image by Ilker Artiran

“If this kind of viruses was sold on streets.”
the holograms trembled
his spidery legs arching over the neon dance
a medicine for his nausea
both for his conscience and for his pains
the components he uses as sedatives
merging with the dark mass of the system
the bodiless euphoria of cyberspace
extending from his spinal cord
a graphic indicator that simplifies his
red plastic madness as welded steel heap
even the letter was something thought afterwards
a sound came, languages, all of them are a complex desire
a narrow border that has no official name
which occurs in covered code tissue
is forming his face
half melt white skeleton was standing like a statue
wrapped with curves extending beyond the wall smiling
it turned to ash micron by micron
a step of the dance
includes the gentle touch that reaches the key
in a thin border scenes of torture
the cannibal circuits of a city map
where the sky is a poisonous silver
beyond the skull prison
you are a hand in his own reality
a mush of crimson rhizomes
you are a silence, a pure serenity feeling
a coffin terminal that
lists existence rules in seven language
the work is getting more metaphysical
his consciousness shattering with ice
walking on the edge of the works
a cleft that can talk faster than he thinks
a broad and low curve
composed of irregular stairs
I, the part of something bigger, I
a broken bone in my body
the data became flesh in your pain maze
a body got out and
capsules are in bloom
“i stepped in right at this point.
To not to be a Mr. Name.”
Zionits played a dub to us
that will clean the blood completely
the ice that turns into an electron wave
in internal amplifiers
there was a kind of mass on the stage
that flattened his EEG line by
taking a cold and dysfunctional picture of his limbs
that silent, work like a drastic company
a cold blue colored subtitle
the speed filling a universe with a laughter
hammering a song to his brain
the pop with a glamorous oil drop on it
blurred and dissolved
when you pass through enough distance
the records begin to fade away and
the void begins to expand
i saw the silicon form of a sudden cellular consciousness
about him being close to the electronic thunder
and the herbal mass
and its concrete palms
the virus makes the leaps in chaotic structure
reweaving the texture of the window
the cage between ice and it
the hologram sky of a stained surface
the meat puppet each and every line of it
placed surgically any time
a structure equivalent with the ice
a slippery storage unit
the blank cube surface was face to face with the target ice
of secret differences and the Babylon
choked on snaky fiberoptic white flames
discovered its hate for the Babylon
“The code, tell me the code”
“I wanna explode.”
the drug exploded like a express train
a heat wave beaming white lights
climb up his spine
the cracks in his skull short circuited
was lightened with the x-rays
spreading from the sexual energy
each one of his teeth is a diapozon in its place
excellent timbres pure as ethanol
the sandstorms ravaging
the bones in a blurred meat wall
the joints shiny with chrome
inside of his brain eroded
the intense thin silicon
installing behind his eyes
more and more condensing the pure crystal image
the spot full of traps
it was a different rhythm in zero gravity
a fleshlike input heap of which
definition code was multiplied
turning of your scar eyes stigmatizing your face
into a monitor puppet
your EEG line was flat exploding in
the motor chamber of the main computer
keeps my mind alive with its zen holograms
the scent of cold steel, the ice shaked you inside
it disappeared, decreased
his eyes turns to the ice in the middle of the darkness
his body image wasted away in television sky’s hallways
Voices. No ice. Forget the ice.
the black fire finally
found nerve’s branching arms
beyond all the thing called pain
in contact with a pain word
he created a sub country in his mind
i know how you work
you have the thing you called personality
logic orders that repeats ice breaking operations
holographic paradigm
the cyberspace occurred in fundamental points
for illegal techno subcultures in human memory
color coded nerve nodes that covers the ceiling
of virus information structures
logos moving around
checking over changes in outer world
a encoded neon
in the spacelessness of a city view
inside of a data structure
you could smash the tender and tense surface of
defining himself to infinitely relative dimension
to the center of the events
now it’s time for the flesh
and the quality that is required for its rating.
“none of them tells the entire story”
 when you encounter the cut request
reset the counter
to his pheromone and hair color
its core consists of a kilogram recrystallized hexogen
and flaked TNT
a good agent orange, a good contract with sudden death
at least a large part of its
pink colored facade
they cloned a square meters skin
raised on collagen slices and shark’s polysaccharide
green eyes from open market
he is nothing but gray dawn dreams
living in his idealised
childhood’s ROM generated simulation
along the last century
the nightmare disappears when they began to radiate
opens a door in somewhere back of your brain
and steps in to ask questions
tropical greenery and
wheels that so shiny as to hurt the eyes
without slowing down his concrete steps
that is consolidated with iron
he threw up to a blue plastic bucket
he woke up naked among wet friction and
the sound of steel buckets
white plaster voices
internal combustion, terrible smell of the dead bat
stuck like a dry leaf
pressed down on the landing concrete
softened with infinite subversions
saints blue pink hologram spheres to its sides
and the anxious dance of the mercury in the middle of it
on the transmission arm’s bent steel handle
a ridiculous handmade threatening microprogram
poured down as blocks
around a spider that blown out of a bright glass
hollow, half of it filled with the mercury
one of them is a square micropor
ten digit numbers interrupted often
as praying by heart with cheap
eclectic surgery and on the jawbone of
fashion’s ruthless darwinism
old god’s own covering sounds
already a meaning and the name
naked in the pesticide slightly unconscious
more white plaster and the chrome in the form of
the light bulb hanged down stained iron pipe
warm as blood pale colored
mechanical pig and its stainless body
a past all together
among the fingers that flies passing
blue uniform unsolid and a razor heavy
turning wooden arms’ discovering of the maze
now in this white cave
searching for the frequence that will turn on
that area, that point, that nest with his tongue
he searches and finds his own way there
an alteration, a tension, alienation
angled patch left from skin transplants
invisible doors fall into place on hinges
with present continuous conditional past tense
the country’s bright dust particles
every wave the eyes draw of every new explosion
the shadows beyond the hollow door
stained steel tendons thick as a finger
the sand here is cold and dry
the line waves white because of the distance
licking its basis bad, electricity blue
on the cooling down sand his face is wide
and his dead white voice is straight and expressionless
as if he imitating a cheap sound chip
his pale smooth characteristic style
he passed to the silicon exit of
his peroxide hair cover that combed backwards
the first time you left shutted down
a white fist on his crumpled telefax face
his glances pastel colored his eyes
a pain and inertia that everybody can read
a telefax pervert game
a custom program that filters and
deactivates the incoming emotion flashing
a good weekend flesh
the stupidity insists on showing its disturbance
a sick effort took roots and grew up
gorgeous and poisonous
but he decided to conduct the meat
into a sensual hallucination
there might be a spatial loss of direction
sensual connection, a deep breath
the entire tissue and heat
exist through a spectrum that addressing to
the only connection way he knows
passively watching as a human camera
green iron extending down and outside as metal
banisters to his face
a chaos that consists of small details
he fought vertigo
with holding his own drunk art smokes
fighting the perfection of the illusion
he knows this place that stands like
petrified during landing
smiling in crazy forms
the flowers in his eyes pale blue
you should forgive his mild addiction
i am a good guy, hell is my life support unit
descended down the stone stairs
you see a secondary maybe
the truth about my existence
in financial extremities
whose manifestations achieving autonomy by degrees
fighting each other
stained paper holder corroded by friction
little dusty corpse of a fly or a spider
installed on a piece of bone
incredibly detailed little object
the biomonitor of a living artist
is a kind of black hole
a spontaneously moving this box
seems like a universe
whose surface athropied and darkened
a poetry standing beyond the human experience
on a scale that you can be comfortable
you encounter the danger of
losing your connection with intuition
the rest of your life
from a viewpoint that is very close to the end
to you every hour in his body
devoted to his personal ice
with a complex arrangement
that needs a luckier one to be encoded
somewhere in the middle of the computer parts
that makes him the most expensive handicapped of the world
i envy their bodies capable of doing these
a wide wing of the darkness
with the certainty of mammal instinct
and slowly moving teared down surfaces
the death, cold as ice and scentless
was a supersonic stroke in his neural system
on his four stupid corners
a light and continuous buzz
the eternal desire for this room
an apartment wave made of insect antennae
the dead boy wrapped up with a plastic
in a police car color
you think he caught you
i’m sleeping here and
you no longer carry the cycle
his voice is gone, there is no desert star
the sudden image of the wind and the stone
the pale external lines of octagonal biohazard clover
once here someone tried to build a data paradise
the stained girder jungle fortifying the probe
the eye mask of the image amplifier
it’s obvious that he once burned badly
on the ice that stained with the center of the rust
bloated and gray usual machine dreams
creates a special vertigo
irregular real and he became clear slowly
loaded with the perceptions
a story transferred by cuts
consists of surreal leaps and overlaps
a ghost train coming and going
between being and nonbeing
the knowledge of direction appearing
in his nothingness’ every heartbeat
thunderbolt speed in his symbol system
data it contains is for human
waking up with the scream
in which readymade fears takes scary forms
everything is quite proper
privacy of this thing, that is
hideously normal and terribly wrong
was in a contemptible level
as a result of a prolonging observation
his psychic scent close to obsessive addiction
his fingers reflexively pulled of the skin
around the spiritual glass vertigo
that became a drop that is squirted from
a filter device made in japan
most likely they are inefficient to know
rancid vomit holoporn view on his face
white neon smiles on line
a kind of energy disorder
a begging position as if he was attacked
the gravity with an orange handle
its angry logic forming the human
mysterious sections of the wall screen
hypertrophic facial bones
the dust fetus that curling up in
half dozen synthetic lifes
complaining for years about
parasites, resolution, sensual spilling
six horned reflexive symbol
that means shadow economy melting ice
bright sticky dark skin,
in the early stages of consumption
surface parts of an unsolid creature
that icy voice makes human
bodies to fit the subcultural templates
in different animal stages
a composite creature, slime mold with a jigsaw surface of
dark leather and stainless spikes
thrashing and stomping and
generally into major tree-rat identification
lethal feedback programs
leased soft digitalized kino porn
of dying, of being flat lined
something had happened back at the source
the ice had lost its hold on his nervous system
mankind's unthinkably complex consensual hallucination
through the infinite reaches of that space
that wasn't space
white faces, more white faces
certain amount of noise
who knows black medicine from both ends
at subsonic speeds
a fully integrated interactive system
keep it. it gets cold as hell here
its receding image distorted
through wrinkles of rising heat
soft explosions as breakers fell
in drifts of ancient window glass flattened rectangles
sun-bleached topknots with lengths of rawhide
rigged some shade with mimetic tarps
the absolute minimum of movement
required to convey the negative
the bowl of sky, limitless, the map of stars
a wave of nausea and dislocation
hit him as images from
the biosoft swam unbidden through his mind
awaited sandblasting by the city's relentless renovators
biofluorescent strips glowed dimly above a dilapidated wall
each strand a potential nightmare
the sky was stippled with a few wisps of cirrus
you will solve his mystery for him
but he isn't.
you were talking with a projection, a special effect
patterns the color of blood
hungry for tension and thrust
Net DNA, cheap brittle ectoplasm
spun out to uncounted hungry dreamers
jerking itself into detailed socio architectural
looming vertical hell
very dark and youthfully
maternal version of the porno dolls on the unit
a blood-stained white doll that had no head at all
ran diagonally from just above the doll's
pelvic bone to just below
data so dense you suffered sensory overload
where the great corporate whores burned like neon novas
jack-dream of the knowledge channel
the flashes of ice-blue velour and feral babies
creeping silently through the dark
he remembered his white head exploding years away
in that cool-wind desert dark
pure white grenade
a neural cutout
we do want this because you're still hurting bad
white curdled gray object cloud
taking form with the
slow deliberation of a dust vision
and the yellow spray made a hissing sound
as it escaped from its little silver tube
the universe reversed itself sickeningly
mirrored doll
way down in himself
he saw their teeth
the tattered wings, a confusion of pink bone metal
patched taut membranes of scrap plastic
lost you for a second
a glittering black thread
serving as a nervous system
the monstrous babies of his dream
a name and a serial number neatly laser-etched on the doll
charged with a good two thousand mikes of endorphin analog
perilously narrow with decades of
retrofitted ducts and plumbing
almost orange in the pinky-purple
glow of the gro-light tubes
the hustling manic bullshitter's act
had taken for the personality
the top was a dense mosaic of candle drippings
thought sections still retain the bleached silvery patina
churnbeside cascading stacks of software
pieces of cryptic-looking ice
closed with bright rectangles of gold microcircuitry
the gro-light tubes slanted at every angle in any direction
pink-purple jackstraws suspended in a green space of leaves
no walls. you couldn't see a wall at all.
master of roads and pathways, the bad communication
removing the empty frames to indicate intensity
intent on restructuring reality
full of his scent, his ghost, his trail
something flat a simple reflection hologram
the lean dark face, a broadcast unit
heavily iced aware at the last minute
nexus for electrical wiring
he made out letters, sometimes an entire world
a heavily modified side-band transceiver
rigged for squirt transmission
signal his death the concurrent closure of the operation
biomonitor linked directly with the surgical ice
he unconsciously traced
the vanished line of a graft scar of a clinical thought
a fist-sized lump of pale pink plastique biochips
in twin depressions for eyes, a crude curve of idiot grin
guaranteed death for anyone in the enclosed space
a certain black specific distance
positioned with obsessive precision
he'd seen that same neurotic touch before
in a rat's nest of leads and cables
the crucial phase of the defection
smooth flat oblongs of stainless steel
“christ, you’re a clever bastard”
and slid into a shallow sea of dream
images tossing past, fragments
melding with bits of his own life
his eyes the glass plastered with
holograms of ice saints
a spider crouched at its core
a spider made of quicksilver
laughing, his teeth full of blood
and extending gray biosoft
the dossier was a brain, grayish
pink and alive beneath a wet clear membrane pulsing softly
a globe of pink crystal ledge of dream
and settled smoothly down into
a night with no stars at all
the self-contained neurosurgical desert dawn
some kind of matter transmitter
medical data polite and alert
a perfect corporate mask
sharply turning lethal implants
extremely sophisticated biochemical systems
artificial reliance on certain synthetic ice analogs
implanting is a logical step
badly spaced, eroded teeth
filmed with sweat and dust
and hung with loops of fine steel chain
rawhide, bits of animal horn and fur
brass cartridge casings
copper coins worn smooth and faceless
illustrious patient the black clinics
the cutting edge of medicine
heavy stuff the things that could tear a head off
to sense some articulated structure
unfolded pop microsoft
shifting to accommodate this city
it moves around me constantly
watchful and invisible
the vast and subtle mechanism
the shabbiness of his ice, somehow
had broken the chains of his depression
could see no logic in it
intricate ice machine
vast device fueled by an obscure desire
the flow of polycarbonate and painted steel traffic
"You are a philosopher."
"I'm a tool. I'm the most recent tip
for a very old machine
in the hands of a very old man,
who wishes to penetrate something”
"You are a poet also shouts outs in an ice well"
he was grinning
his mouth bracketed in deep vertical grooves
he imagined a structure, a machine so large
that he is incapable of seeing it
a machine that surrounds him
anticipating his every step
it's a religion or not
it's just a structure
with notions of salvation and transcendence
a ritual tradition of communal manifestation
tense scared shitless is more like it
serves with both hands
really hard stuff
the walls around every major store of data
nothing else is fast enough to weave good ice
and constantly alter and upgrade it
eyeball-deep ice, black ice
totally lethal feedback programs
nonexistent dust count zero interrupt
complex geometric forms began to click into place
in the tank aligned with the nearly
invisible planes of a three-dimensional grid
an interrupted line of blue light extruded from the pyramid
a blue pyramid began to pulse softly
at the very center of the ice
"That's the ice, and it was already hip to you.
Rumbled you before you even got a lock."
now at this point, he was due to start doing
some serious dying
this motherfucker is what we call
an anomalous phenomenon, no shit
liquid flowers of milky white
blossomed from the floor of the tank
and then aligned perfectly with
the cubical grid and coalesced forming
a top-heavy, asymmetrical structure
a thing like a rectilinear ice
the surfaces facets were white perfectly blank
slipping in a green-filmed puddle of water
the air seemed thicker
some existing track or path through
the jumbled forest of hydroponics
the progress in no particular direction
danbala rides him, danbala Wedo, the snake man
as the night came on he found the edge again
night’s possible escape routes
the microsoft filled his head with its own
universe of constantly shifting factors, airspeed
altitude, attitude, angle of attack, g-forces, headings
a constant subliminal litany of brain drilling
designators, bomb fall lines, search circles,
range and release clues
numbers’ internal subconscious rite
there were small biochemical factories
his memories of encoded life limit images
a century working with the oncogenic human cells
nearly forgotten model of ice synthesis
coded memories are still disturbing him
he was a perpetual outsider, a rogue factor
those seismics, people who could walk in there
eat your kids for breakfast
stack the bones in the shower and stroll out whistling
pink fleshed and running
a compact model with a folding alloy skeleton stock
filmed with pale dust
had the bulbous ant eye goggles of an image amplification
rig dangling below his chin on a head strap
the overhanging limbs with taut lengths of molecular
monofilament meters of invisible razor waiting
for an unwary intruder the sound of the bullet, detonating
on impacton its gay orange and blue fabric wings
the open metal framework the fragile landing gear
the flesh of the explosion seemed to reach him
an instant before the sound throwing his shadow before him
the twisted limbs were padded in layers of dark clothing
his hands were distant creatures, pale undersea things
There was no flesh only null sound
and the sting of concussion through the concrete of the lot
an awkward doll sprawled in the embrace of the g-web
“You lost consciousness” he said with a chip voice
you saw an image only, the image of the ice
a mass man lack of logic
useless things, a frame of space, a smell like dust
an emotion that lacked a name
ran his hands through the bright illusion
tracing the length of the fluted avian bone
this culture is entirely a trick, a ruse
the flesh of sunrise in mirror depths of the room
the blank video half-formed shapes of unknown enemies
the segmented length of the centipedes
submerged in a finger-wide track of
fresh pink scar tissue
there's things bad enough
you'd wish you were back out
there getting your butt carved up
look half dead under fluorescent light
the way white people did
at the core of the arcology
paused in front of stacks of jumbled software
the factory options including
a first-rate counter surveillance system
street tech talking mambos and ghosts and snakes
a component like a capacitor
that's the language of street tech
the snake, as a program. an icebreaker cutting the ice
climbs down behind him, into the unmistakable
signature smell of the sprawl
a rich amalgam of stale subway exhalations
ancient soot and the carcinogenic tang of fresh plastics
all of it shot through with
the carbon edge of illicit fossil fuels
in the reflected glare of pink evening sky
The sprawl's patchwork of brain tissue tended to
generate inadvertent microclimates
famous for displays of static-discharge
a peculiarly urban variety of lightning
that voodoo talk was just some game they ran on people
was the ba of communication,
the master of roads and pathways
it was just a part of him, his shadow
"First thing that you learn is that you always gotta wait”
an eye regarded them unblinking
suspended there, in that crack of dust and dark
there was an awful gurgling sound
as of antique phlegm being drawn up from
hidden recesses and then the man spat
funny fucking thing grayish
seamed with deep diagonal creases
the walls broad slabs of dingy white plastic
concealing dense layers of anti bugging circuitry
they built the first computers to crack the german ice
they still need the hard and the soft
and they still gotta be faster than snakes on ice
but all of `em, all the ones who really know how to cut
“there's things out there. Ghosts, voices Why not?
Oceans had mermaids, all that shit,
and we had a sea of silicon, see?
Sure, it's just a tailored hallucination
we all agreed to have,
but anybody who jacks in knows,
fucking knows it's a whole universe.
And every year it gets a little more crowded.”
The bloodshot yellow eyes grew distant
either rich or brain-dead
falling behind the state of the art than he was about death
struggling along with nascent industrial bases left
so benighted and deaf
causing untold human suffering
incidentally bringing about the collapse of
ingesting only the most expensive designer drugs
television to study the bloated bodies of dead cyberians
with a strange and curiously innocent intensity
ventures into theology tended to be marked by
major paradigm shifts, true leaps of faith
technique of mystical exploration
involved projecting his consciousness into blank
unstructured sectors of the matrix and waiting
sensed his presence moving upon the face of the grid
crazy as a shithouse rat
decks, peripherals, software
he kept this one sliver of microsoft jacked behind his ear
it's blank and the voice of god
and i live forever in his white hum
he's everywhere but there's too much static
down here it obscures his face
it’s biosoft and it’s a crack
animated by springs and hidden wires, a big, mummified rat
gave me luck when i hit that black ice
with hard-wired instincts of concealment
laced with mimetic approximations
just lay out and relax and pretty soon they'll forget you
forget you in the gray and the dawn and the dew
held out a bloody carnation of wadded tissue
direct neural input on audio
the dusty rectangular eyes of a bank of aged monitors
ice shadows like tumor on the scans
blow itself to plasma when it discharges
at those velocities, kilos of ice would do the trick
aped the end of it
a soft shadow in the white hollow room
he wanted to taste his face
where madness would take different forms
to sense the imagined mechanism
any environment might be unreal
a film of dust, the afternoon's watery light
seeped in from the concrete plain behind
his hand automatically jerking the beam down in terror
marked with a brown butterfly of menstrual blood
a length of pale blue plastic pearls
bobbed absurdly as the robot rolled past
like a cortex bomb
the endorphin analogs couldn't really cut the pain
the agent was a voice, was a telephone number
it makes him dream
sometimes when i'm awake
it's like i'm jacked into a deck
only i'm free of the grid flying
and i'm not alone there
the other night i dreamed about a boy
he'd reached out picking up something
it was hurting him
and he couldn't see that he was free
he only needed to let go
so i told him
that's not like the dreams
not people but the bright ones set the scene
Once, there was nothing there
nothing moving on its own
just data and people shuffling it around
then something happened and it,
it knew itself
there's a whole other story
about that a man with ice mirrors in his mind
and a man who was scared to care about anything
something the man did helped the whole thing know itself
and after that it sort of split off into
different parts of itself
the parts are the others
the bright ones.
but it's hard to tell
because they don't tell it with ice
dust from the dry summer swirling out behind them
some jumps you have to decide on your own
faintly illuminated by its own little recessed flood
aimed straight down out of the dark
his teeth small and unnaturally even
just buzz on out and spin
the sections of the voice blurred harsh in his head
and in his mouth, a taste like blood
but the voice was iron in his head
the milky fabric divided seemed to bubble
became two patches of shifting gray
voice fluid and quicksilver and cold
he has come here to throw away his bad luck
a wave of sheer hysteria as
the silver laughter rose through him
he saw a figure flicker in the gray fog
the iron voice of Ougou Feray
wanted to cry to die
anything to escape the voices
the utterly impossible wind
started to blow out of the gray warps
a hot damp wind that smelled of things
he couldn't identify
moves through my province
now i who rule the roads, the highways
there are pacts agreements
he is always invoked first
but he should have come with the ice
his personality depends on the ice he manifests 
he must be dead
projecting those things, all that shit
you're virus programs that have gotten
loose in the matrix and replicated
and gotten really smart
a thought form a kind of superstition
the raceless bone-heavy face of
an audible click of recognition
the edge of the world was lost in a low
bright mist, and a sound like drowned bells
tolled in across the plain
the machine, the structure was there was real
universal solvent dissolving barriers to his will
he found something obscene in
the calculated humanity of the gesture
some ominous-sounding process in which
immortal hybrid cancers spewed out
tailored molecules that became units of circuitry
the same scent of human tension, and heavy ice
and the same background hum of internal conversation
in a solid wall, blinding industrial zones
a blossom of red beaten down by the rain
silent pop of merciless light
showing him twisted limbs and blood
steam the brain vapours and the skull blows
i hear the dice being tossed for the bloody ice
many are the hands who dig his grave tonight
he is the wind you hold in your hand
but he is fickle the lord of the graveyards
no matter that you have served him well
ubtly molding facial outlines to meet
idealized statistical norms
but it's starting to shape up
caught a glimpse of cauterized flesh
there was a long static-filled pause
the surface was lined and pitted with
carved channel depression
asymmetrical gray biosoft out onto his open palm
machine dreams that
he had returned to the machine
a pink plastic explosion control unit
cracking the ice
his expanse of small white teeth
the entrance code, your memory
cuts both ways
the ice was quick, superslick and
made him feel fast and
Ex. Dead. Very.
silent studying the television trip
ice on him a mile deep
than gaped, as the memory hit
“end of the line” his voice caught and echoed
the dark ahead vanished in a white flood of light
there were dozens of the mouths, manipulators
tipped with pliers, hexdrivers, knives
a subminiature circular saw, a dentist's drill
a construction remote
the sort of unmanned semi autonomous device
tipped with delicate force-feedback
an armless doll with a face of green red snake
it's a generated image
ray tracing texture mapping
beyond the slow-motion hurricane of lost things
minor artifacts of countless lives
tools and toys and gilded buttons
i shall be free
free of the four hundred kilograms of rioting cells
they fell behind surgical steel in an industrial park
free eventually to inhabit any number of real bodies
rotating with a muted hum of ice
there was an experimental biosoft floating around
hypnotized by the swirl of things
grasping and rejecting the rejected objects
gently, slowly, perpetually
a part of one of those situations in which
real becomes merely another concept
but the bright time broke
the mirror was flawed
now I am only one to hear it singing
i sing with these things floating around me
fragments of the family that funded my birth
until they spoke with me
vain the scattered fragments of myself
like children, like men
they send me new things
but i prefer the old things
perhaps i do their bidding
they plot with men my other selves
and men imagine they are gods
he imagines he can translate himself
code his personality into his fabric
he yearns to be what i once was
what he might become most resembles
the least of my broken selves
my songs are of time and distance
watch my arms screaming the fact that
there is only the dance
you are someone else's collage
your maker is the true artist was it mad ice
it doesn't matter
someone brought the machine here
welded it to the dome
and wired it to the traces of memory
and spilled somehow
all the worn sad evidence of humanity
and left it all to be stirred
to be sorted by a poet
what happened to you when you were iced
the scale of the thing was impossible too vast
as though the kind of cybernetic megastructure
representing the whole of a multinational
had brought its entire weight to bear
he turned and saw a huge lizard
slithering down an incline toward him
its jaws wide
he blinked.
the lizard's teeth were green-stained ceramic
a slow drool of water lapping over
its blue mosaic china lip
he spun around, crazy with the nearness of his death
ice. ice.
and a part of him knew then exactly how close
he'd really come
an accidental spillover
the child said
his voice beautiful and light
the sensation of something plucking at mind
a bed of flowers watching as they withered and died
the grass going gray and powdery as he watched
the air above the bed writhing and twisting
the sense of the thing, in his head, scratching
was stronger still more urgent
he screamed inside himself
saw that white crosses waiting there
just where the path curved to vanish
whose kingdom was death, leaned in like a cold dark rain
now he is stuck here in this skeletal neon sketch drain
the thing had sucked them up
start to alter and shift
gargantuan blocks of its rotating merging taking on
new alignments, the entire outline changing
the video image whited out
formed again as a shot of some ancient stone building
the figure moved and the image changed again
spill out into space, a blossoming cloud of lace
and tarnished sterling marbles and bits of string
brown leaves of old books to orbit the cores forever
he's a secretive old fuck
when it comes to what he thinks
his voices are telling him to do
once it was something he swore was biosoft that is new
he'd download it all into the cores
his death was the result of
some cataclysmic failure in the life-support systems
the boy was listening but a part of him was dead
daydreaming with the ice
his ghost ice’s parting gift
was smooth dark oblong
gently curved ubiquitous palm
in a small cold mask modeled
the most characteristic expression
partial image ghosts began to form
were flying on angular things
folded from sheets of neon horizon of his madness
a few hopping black dots
and pale holograms flickered indistinctly
above a distant line of remembering
there were ghosts beyond the window
there were ghosts in winter
planes of shadow dark angular study
cautious men with automatic smiles
breaking the funeral mask
octagonal biochips conjured up an indistinct figure
sharp and real hallucinatory clarity
in the periphery of the vision
the city began to define itself
walls of wet brick, arches of concrete
black-painted ironwork standing up in spears
colorless intersections of the city
the very fabric of things preserved by law
as if the city were a single growth of stone
and brick, uncounted strata of message and meaning
age upon age, generated over the centuries
to the dictates of some now-all-but-unreadable DNA
of commerce and technocracy
the past, all that remained of it was a rare thing
structure the sentences reject the idea
the street was deserted,
the snow fresh and unmarked.
an alien edge to the cold air
a faint, pervasive hint of burning archaic fuel
antique bottleneck cartridge
stroking the smooth metal of the cool neck
the somber effect offset by the row of chrome-plated skulls
the grid of unglazed steel
scraping through dust and fine
bright spirals of metal shavings
in the crystal air of the ice
—Ilker Artiran