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Poetry

Contributing Creators Poetry TRANSFORMATIVE TECHNOCRATS - December 2018

Trust The Experts

Art and Text by Marten Bart Stork

Human era. Human error. Human terror. Your mentor. You made more. And more. And more. End more. End less. Begin. Beginning. Begging. Beg for more. Back for more. And more. And more. Or less? More or less. Moralless. Immoral. Immortal. I’m more tall. Than you all. That makes me the king. Thank you all. For coming. Forthcoming. Come again. And again. And again. And a game. End this game. Computer game. Computer gain. Gain access. Assess. Assess the situation. The simulation. The stimulation. The transformation. The implication. Thin application. Expensive cream. Elaborate dream. Laboratory sceam. Mandatory scream. Screaming. Greeting. Greet things. Hi. Great things. Great things will happen. Just keep clapping. And smiling. And waving. At the machine. At the new thing. Trust the experts. Trust the technology. To benefit our society. Our democracy. Our destiny. Whatever that may be.
Allen Caldeira Poetry TRANSFORMATIVE TECHNOCRATS - December 2018

New Cities

Written by Allen Caldeira

Failing that, the cows mated in pastures
and the saints all dropped acid,
screens shattered around them,
falling plastic and glass darted through the square,
twinkled around the edges
and the martyrs fell in with the prostitutes
at cyber cafes where internet trolls
and media warriors lived vagabond
at all times. The streets began to warp
into the rice paddies they once were,
the teenagers with igirlfriends
and sloppy, sexless lives, dragged themselves
into the fields and made new love
to new dirt. The monks chanted
sutras from the temples before Tokyo
rose up from the swamp of its past,
recapitulated itself into the drying eyes
of the martyrs awaiting their executions
for their telling of a future
unstrained by the past. Tokyo, born
again from the ashes of itself.
Tokyo, born again from the ideas
hefted onto it by Carthusians
and Andalusians. Tokyo, born again
from how some thought it should be.
And now the internet cafes cool
down, whores roll in from opium dens,
fat half-chefs spin takoyaki in the streets,
and the saints sit with their
backs to the city, slopping up
ramen in a business cafe.

Poetry Sybrand Veeger TRANSFORMATIVE TECHNOCRATS - December 2018

To Whistleblowing

Written by Sybrand Veeger

“Living comfortably yet unfreely –
That is something many are willing to accept.”

“Not me,” he says.

He spotted abuse and recognized its accumulation –
He could observe, from within,
The architecture,
Intricate and infinitely pervasive,
Of the Orwellian Leviathan:
Big brother’s eyes and ears multiplying,
And multiplying,
To see and hear all things communicated.
The most intimate of conversations – recorded,
A sensual exchange of images – surveilled and documented,
A google drive of private poetry – filed and stored.

The panopticon turned almighty,
Turned God?

“Don’t you realize you’ve helped create this monster?
Blow the whistle or I will end you!
You filthy animal!
I will eat through you like a worm and you will die a slow, painful death.”

His conscience made him an offer he couldn’t refuse…

The whistleblower, the bureaucrat,
The coggest cog in the omnipotent machine,
Turned martyr of some sorts,
Sacrificing his freedom for democracy? For the people?

I’m not sure.

His conscience simply played Don Corleone on him,
Threatened him with capital punishment.
Did he act out of heroism? Out of courage? Noble valiance?

Did he transcend his individuality to reach out for something greater?

I’m not sure.

One blows the whistle to self-preserve,
To survive;
Like a meerkat, in panic, calling out for the predators that nobody else can see.

The predators are dangerous, surely,
They’ll invade, sack, kill and eat up till stuffed.

What if the meerkat remained silent?
Wouldn’t conscience, then, become the most threatening,
The most dangerous of predators?

The whistleblower’s cry is the sound not of courage,
But of necessity:
Instinctiveness,
Biology.

I unsurely conclude:
Conscience defies the line drawn
Between nobility of heart and primitivity of gut;
Between what is deemed exclusive to a few higher spirits,
And what is common to all creatures,
Base or brave,
Courageous or cowardly.
Poetry Sybrand Veeger THE BODY AS A PRISON - November 2018

That Godly Chord That Strikes My Ear

Written by Sybrand Veeger

That godly chord that strikes my ear,
Pounds me down to beastly state:
A punch or blow that meets no fear,
That sends me through a holy gate.

My eyes drown, my hairs erect:
A scale of notes can madden – paralyze!
Yet, music-shock means to resurrect,
To lift off and hear God or Nature’s cries.

Happiness, joy, excitement: words insufficient
To describe the beautifully invasive mania.
Description: to do justice insufficient
To the perplexity of clarity: experienced contradiction.

A mental ascension? A bodily hijack?
Chopin’s ballade is psycho-physical kidnap:
Is it accurate to distinguish body and mind?!
Not when music strikes – when I yield to the sublime.