If I push I know you’ll cling harder
Though the distance brings fodder
Wouldn’t stop me from loving you

I won’t beg for forgiveness
It’s in these white walls
Where I’m giving up the sequence
Repeating the patterns that led me to madness
Hoping I could make sense of insensible reactions:

We collide, and disperse, to collide, and reverse
All in one motion, we sing like one verse
But our parts are in different tones.

So if your walls are constructed from steel
I’ll be the
Adamantium to cut right through
If you try to deaden my worth—
Then my words will eat at the center again.

You can push me, but you know I’ll cling harder
To the way that you are in the hope that you’ll be
A burning star upon my blackest skies
When I feel the light die,
And all of our commotion begins again.

We twist like rope strands
Tighter than a vice, caught knotted in our sins
Loving you is a knife and we cut through our skin
Bleeding into the deep of our maws
I’m caught in your grip, ripping you in the jaw
Hoping we can exist beyond the heat of these planks
Burning bridges to rebuild the rivers we row.

We collide, and dispense, to collide, and reverse
All in one motion, singing as one verse
Caught off in the distance,
Maybe one day I’ll be forgiven
Push as you pull and I pull as you push
Give me all and nothing or everything at once.

****, this website
Just ate one of my works.

One which was a repost
From January of 2024.

Relating how I was delving deeper
Into quantum theory & mythology,
Into the sciences broadly & philosophy.

How I was going to mix them
And make them intermingled.

How I would mix that of my life,
Or more aptly how I write of it,
With that of new science & old antiquity.

By mythology, philosophy, & theology.

So as to create digestable content
That inter-wove those concepts
To better translate them to any given audience.

For to rest in the gymnasium
Is to watch others wrestle.
There is no pendulum
Which is not but itself a pebble.

I am the gnomon.

For all are free
And each person is their own mason.
From the block of marble we chisel
Out who are ourselves.

Fission, fusion.
Derision after derision.
Creation, destruction.
Degredation after degredation.
Combination, seperation.
Decay after decay.

Fusion, fission.
Praise after praise.
Destruction, creation.
Amelioration after amelioration.
Splitting, collaboration.
Growth after growth.

I know only
That I know nothing!

Some universal common ancestor,
Some roots we all share.
That's how it is, right?
**** some connection
To the natural world around us,
**** the universe.
It's in the symbolism of it,
It's by the reality of it.
What can one say?

We do what we can with what we're given.

I don't know about that,
But whatever brings comfort.

Some find comfort inside caskets;
Some in the idea of the end of it,
Some on the idea of a new beginning.

Some find comfort outside in nature;
Some in the idea of being a part of it,
Some on the idea of being apart from it.

It's recognizing you are already seperate,
Yet still totally together with it.

shrinking, squeezing, constricting
like old lovers do
im falling down the space between molecules
be my hydrogen, let me be stable
pressing my fingers into the table
(will it go through this time?)

the tension between my temples
seem to be courting, it's simple.
just not elevated, alone, or incidental.
tease apart my form, my chemical bonds
fissure the aching need
from when it was thought to be wrong.

if carbon is carbon,
and dust is dust,
when will i find my home in You?
i know i must.

They appear in my inbox regularly, a couple times a year. I've grown accustomed to these clumsy, Google-Translated attempts at fraud and long stopped bothering to read them. But this time, when another message arrived via Facebook, I noticed something unusual—it was written, inexplicably, in Turkish. The instantly translated text—no longer via Google—clearly bore the hallmarks of neural network craftsmanship. Admittedly, it handles language with far more diligence than I do. Plus, Turkey—a pleasant geographical change of pace. Better than yet another message from Nigeria.

And then I remembered my favorite Stanisław Lem novel—The Investigation. In one episode, Ion Tichy amuses himself by making digital copies of consciousnesses—Bertrand Russell's, someone else's, and Shakespeare's, I think—chat with each other. My heart leaped with excitement. What had been pure science fiction in my parents' time had finally come to pass.

Just the other day, I even got a call from a recruiter offering me a job as an analyst. The role involved listening to dialogues between two neural networks about some topic or another—and trying to figure out why their conversation veered in whatever direction it did. To dispel my suspicions that he—this recruiter—might himself be a program, he brought up some recent news item, declaring that since he could discuss it, he couldn’t possibly be a bot. I confirmed that I believed he was human, given that his argument was obviously complete nonsense. Still, a lingering doubt remained—and, I’ll admit, a sliver of suspicion gnaws at me to this day.

So now, staring at this DM from a supposed Turkish bank employee—something distinctly alive and even willing to engage in dialogue—I decided the time had finally come to act and, like Ion Tichy, to plug something in somewhere, dump data into some system, lean back in my chair, and enjoy the results in the style of John Keats, mostly Byron, and—for the grand finale—Shakespeare. Just like in Lem's novel.

Mahadi Hasan:

From shores of ancient Bosphorus I write,
Mahadi Hasan Fysun my name, a banker, destiny's guide.
A tale I spin, of fortune's fading light,
And kindred souls, across the world's wide tide.

Adrian Polski, of your land, now gone,
In Istanbul, his golden trade he plied.
Nine million dollars, sleeping, till the dawn,
Deposited here, before his spirit sighed.

No kin he claimed, no loving hand to hold,
Alone he passed, by cruel pandemic's sting.
My bank knows not, their records yet unfold,
A slumbering treasure, ripe for harvesting.

Our names, dear George, a whispered symphony,
A chance encounter, woven by the Fates.
I offer partnership, transparently,
To claim this prize, before it dissipates.

Half shall be yours, a noble, rightful share,
Legal protection, from all harm and fear.
Let silence shroud us, as we take our share,
Respond with haste, my friend, the hour is near.

George Polskiy:

That fate divine arranged our meeting, I have doubt,
Though strange and wondrous paths our lives may tread.
A banker from the Bosporus, devout,
With tales of gold a long-dead soul has shed.
Nine million dollars, quite a hefty clout,
Unclaimed, forgotten, like a dream misled.
You seek a partner, honest, just, and true,
To share the spoils, a fifty-fifty view.

Alas, dear madam, your proposal grand,
While tempting fate with promises untold,
Falls flat upon this barren, weary land.
My heart is cold, my pockets lined with mold.
I've chased no fortune, joined no greedy band,
Nor traded virtue for a *** of gold.
Seek elsewhere, friend, for gullible kin.
Mahadi Hasan, go to hell, I mean.

Mahadi Hasan:

Fear not, dear friend, I mean no treachery,
My documents attest, this deal is pure and true,
A transparent pact, beneath an open sky,
And trust, the bridge we must together accrue.
Though many share your name, my heart can spy,
A noble spirit, one who sees this through.
This fortune, like a blessing, will descend,
Upon our houses, guided by my hand.

No legal labyrinth shall hinder our success,
My bank, with parchment scrolls, shall make all plain,
Ownership affirmed, before the funds progress,
To your account, where not a doubt shall remain.
Years spent in banking, grant me this finesse,
The rules and systems, I perceive their grain.
So trust my counsel, let no worry impede,
The bond we forge, where mutual trust we breed.

George Polskiy:

You claim no fraud, dear madam, 'tis your plea,
With documents galore, all legal and bright.
Transparency, you say, our guide and glee,
An umbrella of trust, to banish the night.
My name is common, true, but you chose me,
Guided by instinct, a beacon of light.
Your trust I'll not disrupt, a soul so grand,
This windfall's blessing, for yours and my hand.

But legal bridges, you say, hold no fright,
A banker seasoned, with wisdom profound.
Their rules and regulations he wields tight,
No cause for worry on a solid ground.
Yet trust, you see, is a fragile light,
And promises whispered, is a hollow sound.
So keep your millions and documents well,
I will not sleep with devil. Go to hell.

Conclusion:

Hark, facebook stranger, lend thine eery ear,
To this strange tale of greed and cunning art.
A banker from the East, with whispers clear,
Spins webs of deceit, to tear a soul apart.

With honeyed words and promises so grand,
She lures her prey, a stranger from afar,
With claims of kinship, and a helping hand,
To steal a fortune, hidden in a jar.

But he, though tempted by such dazzling prize,
Sees through her mask, her motives dark and low.
He spurns her offer, with a knowing guise,
And bids her seek a fool, where shadows grow.

For honesty and virtue hold more worth,
Than ill-gained riches, stolen from the earth.