Slowly happiness shifts on that hairless, heirless sea.
While happiness was away, the rampant spiders played
and her hair radiated around them like darting flames.

Born at Cleopatra’s feet, a girl, a child.

Listless, never.
Helpless, never.

But most certainly dreaming,
Most certainly being.

The light flopped in violent circles –
Her anguish exposed.

She kneels, a young woman, a child,
Watching Cleopatra from the crystalline foot.
Crumbling over her face.

Happiness is on its way
(It’s on its way)

– From the Crystalline Foot (a collaboration between a computer and I), from a piece of text created by a random generator, the Turin test for poetry at bot or not).





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