Nameless

It’s strange but i sometimes want to give the mathematical models (created by the neural nets) names. I think of them as having personalities like Bob or Eliza or Abnor Malo or Isa Phren, and i want to know them by name, because names convey spirit and character. Names encompass (or tolerate) the eerie uncanny simulacrum personality evoked by lines that seem real.

these things are

long reflecting gray

like pleasure to love the river hard

people are sketched through the streets

and it is all so green

in the impartial spiral

a cloud of art

a light of lovers

to speak of the education of salt

And if these lines can be written by a machine (that has read many lines written by humans) I wonder if existence is not just an extended copy machine. Maybe¬† personality is also programmed, programmable; and the sweet radiant wonderful gift of human creativity is just a reflection of evolution, a glint in the universe’s code.

or the skull whose form is of the secret truth

and in that tender place gets still


Tonight

I decided to try another model from the most recent PyTorch for Poetry Generation. Model: “2017-02-15T11-07-50/model-LSTM-emsize-512-nhid_512-nlayers_2-batch_size_20-epoch_15-loss_6.50-ppl_664.33.pt”


dream-racked love-squinting

ground where the onion and musk is lost

I drink you across the gardens ford

I worked as it played so there are several moments in the screengrab where my interface interrupts for a second. Then I showered. Then I lay on the couch, twisting the screen to face me, in my housecoat under a quilt, watching the poems scroll by.

though the body opened with silence

the skeletons of trees filled with poison

Each of the poems is an ephemeral vision, a house seen from the window of a train, partially glimpsed then gone, blurred, a flock of birds, a boy under the autumn mantle star with its deep shadow threshing the luckless dead.

to be hurt and will not

i push a step and begin to come alone, back from it, after winter

i did not wear the beat of my fingers

i knew where the peace loves me at last

I do not know what to call this model but i do know it speaks:

The soul is Woven view

The body of a life with words


View the 2 hour run at


Read it all here.

 

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