when you look into the machine it already looked into you

Reading more for rwet, some of the Gnoetry work:

He wasn’t rich enough or something.
Everything belonged to him. He was just
robbery with violence,
and sorrow, dishonor, and varnished boots.
So he comes here, you know, to the profound
darkness of his heart. The flies buzzed in a lofty
portico. I was only
a thing. He thumbed the messenger, invited
me over. “It’s really profitable, and
rather less pretty in shape, but you never
forget the uncle.” Afterwards I came
upon him alone. A continuous noise of the drum,
regular and muffled like the closed door
of darkness, claimed him forever.

Eric Scovel, A Light Heart, Its Black Thoughts, 2009

From the first poem I found on the Internet:

The stones make you great.
The stones greet you in mosaics on the hillocks.
They seem to face me so that we can speak each to the other.
The wind breathes inconsequentially over the grass.
But it is your voice temperate with original breath
that I can almost hear it amidst the false speech of this age.
Between the wars we were lost to each other,
but now there is a transformation— a consolation.
What voice would you bring into the 21st century
now that we are of the same age—
mine and yours bound together by thistle?

Stones by Marc Weidershein, 2009

Clearly that’s a far cry from this:

The leader of the troop unlocked his word-hoard;
the distinguished one delivered this answer:
“We belong by birth to the Great people
and owe allegiance to Lord Hygelac.
In his day, my father was a famous man,
a noble warrior-lord named Ecgtheow.

–Beowulf, 900 AD(?) trans. Seamus Heaney

Of course, that’s kind of a cheap shot, but what about this:

Angel of beach houses and picnics, do you know solitaire?
Fifty-two reds and blacks and only myself to blame.
My blood buzzes like a hornet’s nest. I sit in a kitchen chair
at a table set for one. The silverware is the same
and the glass and the sugar bowl. I hear my lungs fill and
as in an operation. But I have no one left to tell.

–6. Angel of Beach Houses and Picnics by Anne Sexton, 1972

So what came first, electronic text or the contemporary text? Electronic thought or the current thought? I think it’s clear that electronic text engages and pleases some because they’re already set up for it by the circumstances of contemporary life.

On the other hand that ignores some notable movements and artists.

How far back can you go?


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