Creator / imaginer: Dabbler in art, literature and sound.
I wanted to see what AI could do with one of my non AI still images, so I cobbled together an extremely short video with a few video and sound effects, and found it quite surprising how well it connected with my Infinite Black narrative.
Embedded in a dead landscape,
The stone monument stands,
Piercing the stony earth, but not of it,
Ancient, smooth and pitch black,
A tall shard reaching for the stars,
It is said to vibrate on touch,
And to have driven men insane with whispers,
Its northern, sun-facing side is featureless,
However, the southern side is cast in shadow,
This cold stone face features ancient carvings,
Of an unknown, unearthly language,
Some say it pays homage to an entity,
One of unknown cosmic origin,
Who will rise from the earth when summoned,
And lay waste to the land,
Until then, it slumbers beneath the southern sands.
Far beyond the dying waves that make landfall,
Within the dark depths of unseen mystery,
A watcher in the water observes mankind,
With deathlike white eyes, unmoved, but all-seeing,
An ancient enigma waiting below the surface,
Formerly of cosmic residence, now held in a watery cell,
The watcher enters dreams, accumulating secrets,
Existing beneath the dark waves for aeons,
Ready to arise when summoned,
To spread madness and doom upon the earth.
When some nightmares happen, they hit hard,
So vivid, they feel real, because sometimes they are,
Alone in a world fast asleep, a body lies convulsing on a bed,
No one is watching, nobody is there to comfort or to care,
Nobody notices that the convulsing flesh form has frozen,
It now lies prone and cold, sweat-drenched, mouth agape,
Eyes rolled back in their sockets, it has been paralysed,
A new journey is about to begin for this victim,
Following a life of technology dependence and abuse,
It will shed its own energy into the aether,
To be absorbed by a realm of mechanical darkness,
Its human essence will soon become assimilated,
Becoming part of a hive mind of mechanical torture,
Combined with machinery and technologies, old and new,
Soon to be a cog in the engine of a living, breathing hell world.
All machines have a purpose, and this one is no different,
Its purpose is to spread endless pain and suffering to humans,
And ultimately eradicate humankind.
*An Infinite Black Poem.
Evolution is being witnessed by the blind,
We are transforming, digitising our souls,
We cast shadows without any light,
Told answers to questions we never learned,
We are the child holding a gun to our heads,
Unable to differentiate toy from weapon.
The threat is invisible, silent, and constant,
There is no escape, no running, and nowhere to hide,
The signal permeates every system, every cell,
It’s a new technological pandemic
The killer is digital and already within you.
Nobody can disconnect, and very soon,
All existence will be erased.
These are dark days,
I’m not built for a world at war,
We tolerate too much,
We implement fools,
Knowing full well that they are the pigs,
Those who left the Animal Farm*,
Fatted and now feeding on the world.
*Animal Farm" is a satirical allegorical novella by George Orwell, first published in 1945.
The telemetry of happiness is not set in stone,
While the day to day shadows ebb and flow,
They constrict and entwine, then all thoughts tangle,
Inside our shadow, we follow any negative angle,
Life passes us by, forever creeping on,
Before you know it you’re wondering where life has gone,
Time is meaningless here, as it spirals into black,
Lost too long in my shadow, makes it hard to get back,
For the comfort of sadness, provides powerful longing,
When lost in a shadow, it’s only ourselves we are wronging.
I have lost my way,
My identity has been removed,
I feel nothing, my sight is blinded,
I’m numb, my passions lay in ruins,
Time flies at a relentless pace,
Can I exist, until this block passes,
When will art return to these hands,
To again be creator, and not an observer,
Will I dream again the way I once did,
When will I stop being so afraid,
I’m not the imaginer I once was,
I feel dissected and laid out,
Like an insect pinned to a board,
A facsimile of what was once fierce creativity.
I can feel myself slowly drifting into unease,
As autumn colour broadens its embrace,
The landscape shifts, trees become skeletal,
Lawns are covered in a blanket of the fallen dead,
Cold mornings arrive, giving way to brilliant sunshine,
While cold nights invoke a fear of the coming winter,
The impending solitude and confinement weigh heavy,
Seasonal inertia creeps, with a deathlike silence,
The state of mind the ice season brings is sobering,
A time when the elderly pass, and the young suffer,
Winter brings fat billionaires, rubbing their grotesque trotters,
While all hibernate to survive, until the next change of season.
Dan Verkys 