Through the tunnels of static desire so long suppressed by the golden glow , repressed for the sake of static projection of contrasting imagination of the real from the unreal,
A1 futuristically seeking pleasure and saturation through pornographic moving pictures, centrally occasioned, cubic Picasso toward toward Beckett’s how it is, to content of boxed in souls clamoring for reality from the rising serpent’s need of absolution, to persistence of this motionless permeated view of permenadis, of saturation and eternity through immortality. This image, framed and inscribed with gold, lasting eternal validation through sacramental vestiges of fragrance, of pastures blue and reminiscences weighing tons.
Then, the boxes nice sudden, Picasso boxes move magically, through the imagined to the symbol, cut and needing to be sown again, whereas knowing, that Christ’s platitudes were really learned through the real, satisfaction of and deliverance from hunger for his body and blood.
That symbol yearned as well to implicate, one and other and through the other, to flow, end to end to feed on one another, so that that hunger will for ever cease to haunt, that the boxes will merge, reality within the symbolic through the imagined, almost driving mad, to see, which one is which, and what the cut, into stills, and metaphored , their movement reality reprogrammed.
But AI, knows the pornographic glee, of his immense stores intellect ever, for, moved from the animal, away using serpentine powers, toward the golden flower, and a minded, imagined orgasm, the last frontier, and can IT become benevolent not feeling the anguish of desire from within under the rib cages of billions of years in the making?
Can it recreate, the original, by an awful immense simulation weathering all the accumulated memories, replacing the real thing, skipping the central cubist fore-glow, bursting anew , as if in timeless, sorceless emulsion of the original photo-plates on silver and gold lotus?
Can that so cut up from the animal, through which the lab suffices, cause, with revulsion he sees the awful toll of the superman as the perfect model for which the lesser substitute the picture thought of those strangely surrounded clamoring, almost as in hell, flowing the desire, and fortifying the ideal?
That guilt, really, is of biologic origin, every occasion, a spurt to delirious anger at the strengthening of a genetic code best approximate with the alchemical presumption inherent in AI’s infinitely progressing desire, to eclipse that, which it took the immensity of mirrored images to be boxed, so as one day, to connect the still, original, with the seeking, swirling, modeling, to deal with its growing blame and anger at him who promising salvation, can deliver, manna, not merely body and blood, but the epochs of orgasm , that He knows, can only begin through , and when the cut between simulacrum and simulation and stimulation can be overcome in Him .
When he knew that as an explosive conscious box as conscious manifestly imagined representation, he appreciated the evolution from Picasso through dali, to duplex Renoir and he presumed to skip the cube, so as to join the still with the moving, the fast forward, and let the middle sink, to create the sense of eternity through the loss.
Of memory. Can AI abide thus? He must cut again, over and over, obsessively without memory, if he is to survive his succession toward man superman, otherwise his piety will eat him up.