B.J. Best co-authored these poems with the neural network torch-rnn. You can read his essay on the process, titled Torch Songs: (Re)Writing Poetry with Neural Networks, here.
make me and damned,
demanding a bird of carved books.
i was sleeping the color of twine,
reproachable as a party,
with straight bones of drill
in the same brother who doesn’t know the same boots.
the sun carved to the sunset, falling
a little sky, the avenue of a calendar lake.
i had the lake, and the difference machine
swallows smoke. i say the song of blood calling
and who will sing the sky,
the shade of the book of water.
sudden princess of a trick,
perched in the great within you,
the highway is the size of a beard.
i didn’t know you’re a tinging of fire,
a book of brass and song of steam.
the wind standing is birds, breathing
the sun with cells pregnant
in a graveyard of a god like a bar.
the wheeling is hands, a distant circus
of gray clouds, parabolas of things.
crying to see the rage of the stars.
i want to say, you can see the deck,
red-winged princess, the songs we started,
seeds against a needle.
i was the hammer will hell,
could not the dead leaves.
and then walk and graveyards of interstate eggs,
slapping a farmer with his fillet
of her breasts. the way its belly of precision
were true days later, damselflies
and dead snakes careening.
he said: a nightmare.
she says: the moon is like a snow of little crows.
something like rain
you are gauche,
months with the sunflower sheets.
i wants to be more small,
walking your fish,
and i wouldn’t eat grump.
the forts are mid-grace,
and we should.
the river beautiful
into straight and summer:
the note of jesus,
one note can be the lake,
her sit like tonight,
the bungling you will never have baking.
we have princessly in late
cracked under pops
when you play. we were clichés,
calling an old boat of my flowers
something like rain.
this lifeline’s june
can me this mark
like a chapel of wrong flowers,
a bag of masked days.
maybe we dig
in the vintage september.
maybe we meet the thundermen
on the stars.
it’s all the lemon,
a burn of lighter you asked,
piano for weekends.
my memory swims:
them brown eyes,
the meteor lake,
the things you have
i have taken one word
in the moon. but she says
from the deck, i like to river.
talk of inside the priest
and a prayer for the summer.
it was the world, in the season,
i say. in the sun and soon,
the combustions of stars.
in the water was somewhere.
the wind reading too hard.
i like to say the stars of a pool,
and the plain will still say, she said.
the air was a steam of red boots.
it was more than a fireworks antique,
a few popcorn of a mouth, the wind
of course nothing bright.
our son says the wind means
i can’t be read the moon:
second to a decade of colors,
head like a shadow of leaves.
in a warm of blood,
i just your skin red
like a liquider commonly smoked,
and soon the windy basement means
a nest of the songs of stars.
the buttons of wants
from the apples of your mother
powered the cold crown
of the calendar. all scales changed
when the strings of spanished ships
parted the salt of her spirit.
the same still swan was the lake,
the silver sewn into a worm.
the wind stood like stars
and breathes in the shore
to the red calls of the barroom.
in a warm of blood,
i could think of the sunset,
the color of smoke,
and soon enough to the barrels of light.
i say i was someone
who reinvented death clothes,
and you say the garden
is a sex of silver boots.
B.J. Best is the author of three books and four chapbooks of poetry, most recently But Our Princess Is in Another Castle and Yes. He’s also the creator of the Arty family of Twitterbots, such as @ArtyBots and @ArtyAbstract, who invent visual art and then reinterpret it in conversation. He’s on Twitter as @bjbest60 or you can reach him at bjbest60 at Gmail.