black + white ∙ Stan Strembicki ∙ FL14
“The Policeman’s Beard is Half Constructed”
Computer Prose and Poetry by Racter
Computer Prose and Poetry by Racter
RICHARD. A week is obscurely like a night.
BUCKINGHAM. My Lord, chicken is like lamb.
RICHARD. Yet weeks can be killed as can chicken.
BUCKINGHAM. Tis true, my Liege, yet ambiguities adorn our pain as ambiguities broaden our issues.
RICHARD. Sweet Buckingham, thy commitment, decorated with Joy, begins to speak briskly
to my distress. Spy me slaughter my
distress tho' it take a day.
BUCKINGHAM. Noble King, you chant weeks can be
slaughtered and yet assassinating chicken will not broaden our
question.
RICHARD. Kinsman, you croon truth.
BUCKINGHAM. Truth loves happiness. And yet quickly we
fly and soar and destroy
those happinesses which are our continuing pleasure.
Madden us to slaughter and we drunkenly watch
the happiness of our contracts.
RICHARD. Well cried, true friend.
Thy distress is prince to my own.
BUCKINGHAM. Royal prince, let us dream and our
pondering will help us gulp the intractable cup of anguish.
RICHARD. While trotting quickly yesternight I watched
my home adorned with anguish.
I thought that I would commence to slaughter
those counsellors who whisper
their frightening tales of our nervous birthplace.
BUCKINGHAM. Yet these solicitors are as princes to
our tragedy. How easy to slaughter a solicitor,
how hard to drunkenly stud our home
with interesting happiness. And so, good prince,
fascinating commitments, like steak, are as food for our
dreaming.
RICHARD. Noble brother, thy tale is furious,
yet slaughtering attorneys in truth is essential.
BUCKINGHAM. Good prince, measuredly I think that
our months are shortened by the millisecond.
RICHARD. Deepen your pondering, good brother.
BUCKINGHAM. Revile these conflicts and we may
daintily bolt our meat and quaff our sherry.
RICHARD. Well spoke, sweet brother
BUCKINGHAM. My Lord, chicken is like lamb.
RICHARD. Yet weeks can be killed as can chicken.
BUCKINGHAM. Tis true, my Liege, yet ambiguities adorn our pain as ambiguities broaden our issues.
RICHARD. Sweet Buckingham, thy commitment, decorated with Joy, begins to speak briskly
to my distress. Spy me slaughter my
distress tho' it take a day.
BUCKINGHAM. Noble King, you chant weeks can be
slaughtered and yet assassinating chicken will not broaden our
question.
RICHARD. Kinsman, you croon truth.
BUCKINGHAM. Truth loves happiness. And yet quickly we
fly and soar and destroy
those happinesses which are our continuing pleasure.
Madden us to slaughter and we drunkenly watch
the happiness of our contracts.
RICHARD. Well cried, true friend.
Thy distress is prince to my own.
BUCKINGHAM. Royal prince, let us dream and our
pondering will help us gulp the intractable cup of anguish.
RICHARD. While trotting quickly yesternight I watched
my home adorned with anguish.
I thought that I would commence to slaughter
those counsellors who whisper
their frightening tales of our nervous birthplace.
BUCKINGHAM. Yet these solicitors are as princes to
our tragedy. How easy to slaughter a solicitor,
how hard to drunkenly stud our home
with interesting happiness. And so, good prince,
fascinating commitments, like steak, are as food for our
dreaming.
RICHARD. Noble brother, thy tale is furious,
yet slaughtering attorneys in truth is essential.
BUCKINGHAM. Good prince, measuredly I think that
our months are shortened by the millisecond.
RICHARD. Deepen your pondering, good brother.
BUCKINGHAM. Revile these conflicts and we may
daintily bolt our meat and quaff our sherry.
RICHARD. Well spoke, sweet brother