The Infinite Hunger Eternal. \\ THIS IS MY DOPAMINE TO DRINK.

My Legacy?
Don’t really care about personalization,
Of my goals,
Or works.
It’s simply been a transition in several things.
Desires to use my ticking time –
To leave behind what I can;
Helping folks think critically.
Write art that tells my story,
Merely so others can learn from it.
Instill:
Self Awareness.
Self Reflection.
Darker Ulterior Motives:
Being good at Social Engineering,
Spreading Education,
Knowledge,
Wisdom.
Knowing how things spread,
Like a more literal interpretation,
Of Virus.
Leave behind:
This facsimile of myself.
Secret numbers,
Held tight to my chest –
…
Oh?
You wish to know my dance of maths?
Dyscalcula crushed ‘neath mine heel,
With hungering mastery at last.
Fine:
Not Riddle,
Problem.
Requiring A Solution:
3600-Odd Poems.
45 Words on average a poem –
Using Twitter,
Then Bluesky.
Character count limits my blessing;
Forcing my poems to be concise.
One Hundred & Sixty Two Thousand Words,
As rough ballpark estimates go.
Books,
Series,
Resources.
Smiling,
Knowing I’ve likely crushed a good…
Half Million Words.
But remember:
Do what I do,
Because I can.
Hoarding skills, sciences, & secrets,
All to myself.
The Infinite Hunger Eternal.
Mine is a dead art form.
Like speaking broken shitty Latin,
Conjugated,
All the wrong Declensions.
Digital Wastelands –
Beyond endless machine learning,
Algorithms reducing my tiny islands,
To endless black seas.
Don’t give much of two fucks,
About titles.
Nor records.
Much as I muse on them,
In attempts,
Singularity calls me from beyond time.
Transhumanist futures,
I desperately claw toward.
All whilst knowing how far there is left to go.
Separating the actual impossible,
From impossibilities I hath conquered,
Against every other voice that damned me.
I create in a bubble.
Fuck critics,
They can get fucked.
THIS IS MY DOPAMINE TO DRINK.
I’m farming.
It’s Harvest.
You’re merely a silent,
Passive audience,
BARELY TOLERATED.
Craving some authenticity,
Amongst silent ongoing rituals –
I juggle along my synapses.
My pile of poems,
Teaches of Depression.
But also hopes,
Fears,
& Traumas.
Written proof:
Against completely stacked odds?
Somehow,
I yet survive.
Scholars!
Oh you bastards with Masters,
Or PhDs!
Speak to you,
Post-Mortem,
Centuries from now.
Remember Foucault:
Speaking to anything,
Gives it power.
Allowing parasitic Zeitgeists,
Devoid of free thought,
Over echo chambers.
Contagions Of White Men.
My only legacy should be progress.
Martyr’s attempts at paying it forwards,
Unto generations long yet to be born.
Decades, Centuries,
Possibly Millennia,
If we aren’t already completely fucked.
Entropy:
My Object Of Worship,
My Greatest Demon I Must Slay.
Duality per a coin.
Weaponized Faith.
World’s finally gone mad.
I’m so grateful,
Not to be the only mad one anymore.
Do things for reasons others can’t fathom.
Feels strange to me.
Entire webs of analysis,
Punching wooden signpost arrows.
Why can’t they see all hundred angles,
Or perspectives?
What do you mean –
That they can’t…
Play at Leviathan?
Listen.
My work should always be mostly free.
Peeling off strips of flesh,
Feeding the fish.
Mystic or not.
Hermit Guru,
Silly little title I prefer –
To any variation of “Greatness.”
Scholars?
I,
Witch,
Final Will & Testament;
Can you ensure all my bones;
Are carved into dice?