Neural Network Poems Illustrated by Another Neural Network

Each of the below poems is a collaboration between me and torch-rnn, as described in this essay from Empty State. The titles and texts of these poems were then fed into AttnGAN (via Runway), which is intended to take simple a description (such as "this bird is red with white and has a very short beak") and synthesize a photo of it. The below poems, perhaps, are not as simple.


everyone’s over

but you give me, you remember,
your constellation:
arc of red birds like style.

i think you left the plants later
when i was nothing.

you tell drinking some inchword
of the fisherman, the boat prophecy
pinking through the weather,
saying what you loved.

surely you’re mean like a commodore.
you would christ that this nation
burned from love. good seems to snow,
the train’s belly tastes of song,
and everyone's over

my thought of trying to say,
my soul of thrushed smoke.


ancestry

the save of the wind and some stones.
snowman of the box,

a father that was the concrete candle
in the spackled flowers.

the day settles across the sky
with the wind or pine for the grandfather below,

simple on the slip like blue.
the way you were ships, are notes,

that for the same bubbly and snow,
the mother in i will roost in the wind.


from a midnight boat

dead from the wind, eaves from the clouds,
with no rock on the worming sand
who shored like a sky, like crates of stars.

it is feathers of snows
with the belly as a constellation.

in the wind still be the saint of flour,
so the water, the stars, the lake
of the teared glass with a prayer—

they watched the fine prayer that is a dancer.

in the sap, the sunside to your blue me
springs the bright shards of song.
the stars crack and form like steel.


graphology

as the sunset hangs,
you are explode,
a learned wing of crows.

i hope to your eyes, one hand
on the threads of ampersands,
the other electricity.

you are hope lovely,
the cursive of a butterfly,
the myrescent envologist

of the wrist. here, i did not
buy a street, but a bowl
of snow bodillias,

and we are the holy heat
of stars: lips thrumming,
stop our backs,

a ruck of nestling.


purple from the weather

chilly, would say a tent,
of someone who breathes
like a case of a cloud of snow.
and how more than to take on its slather—

rise in the light of notes on the pier.
the punch boat looked good,
thank your gray-breath story,
as the rainbow of snakes stood in your lungs.

this is the way we are branches:
we would shake so new. now your bones
sit terrified in some chilled time
while my heart is sparrow things.

sometimes the long water is a child.
sometimes you swallow my cries.
sometimes it's all the same sheets
to the sky, the shards sweet

across the moon. i scold you and you dance
and stare, hospitable and alien, sailing
the swords of your eyes into the rain.


what ripples are

i want the bells, the sundry of sunburn
in the skin, of white that can't be clouds.

you was the map about a kitchen of rains,
the treasure of a garden of stars.

the wind with an antique talk about water.
is the lake too sad, you with many swimming said?

windows standing in dust. sudden the talons,
and whatever we drought, you want.

who sabotages at the stars? i want the sun
pressing bones. you want the weather of flashing,

a boat simple, wind over an amazed cattail lake.