Breath, Breath, to the KLF
Life, life, to family and wife
Curse, curse, on war mongers perverse
Love, love, all humans hand glove
Stop it, stop it, those who fire the damn rocket
See, See, hypocrite BBC
Peace, Peace, in the middle east
Greased, Beast, selling arms murder feast
Hornithology
(For John Sinclair set to Ornithology by Charlie Parker)
1
i’m thinking of you standing on the corner
joint in my hand, in my head plays a band
i thought i’d write a head for you
for all that you did it’s the least I can do
for all what you wrote on the blues is true
and so I’m asking what can we do?
as long as you stay in my head
i’ll be feeling well and read
(we cut our own path and on we tread
but don’t forget to go to bed)
2
we’ll always have your music and your writing
to brighten our day, and show a new way
i really miss your singing and laugh
but inside my heart I have your autograph
outer space bop and anti-gravity craft
obli be bop blamster dam
dizzy bird and monk and rap
muddy sonny ra and fats
(ginsberg burroughs kerouac
hope your happy in you nap)
3
i wonder how it is up in the jukebox
up there in the mix with mingus hendrix
and all the rockin’ jams that you love
all the swinging cats an’ the poets you dug
dancing like a teenager to wolf and bud
i hear you speaking in my dreams
a yusef miles and coltrane breeze
roll up a scroll an’ cheers our teas
(a drop of honey lemon squeeze
in the land of ooh blah dee)
–Steve Fly
Amsterdam, 2nd April 2025.
For John Sinclair (R.I.P)
Only wetware, off the top thoughts pop.
No large lang model but my own wet goop
Serve slang sandwiches for witches on loop,
Cradle to cradle PrattGPT time to laddle
The narrative fable to enable a safe stable,
To train the horses on classes
Led by Donkey’s investor asses
Amass the assets and freeze rewind the tape cassettes
Eject the greed heads and the cancel the bias
Can you remix the gods by using the masters pliers?
Tight hill skullkin’ occam’s razor rope talking,
I’m a bagginzez Tzolkien, Tanmaya not sulking,
A player Christereotype gone walking
Up the road past the benchmark market tokin’
Give me the bugaphone and I’ll remix and spark it
This wet fly flow unpredicts what you think your “I” know
What you think your fly now, what weights awaits AI now,
Don’t psycho, give me a positive sign now,
A symbol…
a system of multi-polar global solar tingle wisdom
Time scheme irreducible, spatial facial boost crucible
Swim fast and loose for a truce able,
Making peace via internetwork cable,
Release the beast on your own record label,
House of punch-cards little litturntable,
Return eternal word wurzel,
Fly brains absurd puzzle, returned a lost parcel,
Semantok passing granma sin tax glossing
How surprising is surprise
How to measure god’s thighs guys?
Pull up yer’ flies and stop wanking,
Lift up when economy is tanking,
The tracks of the tank trace killingry and banking,
I’m the sand sun king, the emperor of dust
hide bound habit sanding down rust to trust,
The mega boom bust comes at maga cost lost
The qwick bruno fax jump over lazy gods
This PrattGPT running like profits from greedy water firms
Needy greedy worms for their private profit terms,
The turning gyre beast slouches invance couches and squirms
Humanity learns, the hard way,
Techno feudal choke point nexus of, “I did it my way”
Bastards
Getting angry at AI demons fighting in your wig
Drink the cool aid, rub one out with belief, take a swig,
Musk guzzles his own jizz by the 10 litre bottle
Hyper testosterone techbro, foot glued to the throttle
Bully boy bigger is better bullshit banter,
Now the game change, open source come to get ya’
Free for all disruption, give it away and watch eruption,
Of the tight wing greedy weak god squad piddle squeak,
Squirting entropy in your Googling FaceX Unopen demon box tweak
Twatter
The rhyme in the cauldron, the languages our children
Vorticist symbols on the recipe exploding,
All over the garden spring flowers and rhubarb and,
Barbarous hooks and words mock the rise of orange
Barbarous herds with all the worst words
The tsar link to the star link,
A bizzare inc. Elon’s heist wink
so come on come on
all you tacit trumper dumpers,
show us a source, a fact, some remorse from Hitlers bunkers, your fucking bonkers.
Get the flow going, some tattered ragged rhymes the sure need sewin’
Just keep yer’ intellect glowing,
And the garden mower mowing down the hate,
Punching down clowns attack the weak
And blame the crowds,
Like a Mongolian horde,
They keep the violence abroad,
Trade or spade on bank board
Invest in mess in around in foreign soil
No blood for oil
No blood for golf courses
No blood for private stem cell vampires
No blood for votes
No blood for data centers
No blood for revenge
No blood for
No blood
NO
Non servium
Don’t feed the beast
Release your energy in community
Resist the sex pest, resist the richest war chest,
Resist the opportunist blame game populists
Flame names crumb rock to this
Insane brain flocktopass,
The rain drain clock tok to push
A crane picking up letters like a fucking octopus,
Off and out, like bad bald bread said fred,
Think it through, stay well red in the reeds
Orphic hymns to local rivers carry seeds,
Way back primal visit to move forward deeds,
New path to sense and new sensibility feeds,
A great sensibility
Great global sense sympathy
Newsphere with less fear dear is that clear is that clear?
But you gotta’ dip into the paidstream news, sorry,
And get a hold of those shame blamed blues before
Putting on those new soul shoes,
Talking about sad a bad stuff, and how much of its bluff,
How rough the beast, how gruff the beast, when is enough enough?
How to measure fascism, how to measure insanity or love?
Self harm does harm to self and to others,
Scapegoating sons and gaslighting mothers,
Fake soaking brains with tar and goose feathers
Lies to make you despise your own brothers
Ties with arms data and steel to conceal the damn dirty dirty robbers
Flies to surprise that dark maga horror behind your eyes,
The lotus flower,
Moose in the road intervention, break quick,
Steer into the skid and trust the suspension
Of disbelief, avoid the orange moose flies at dawn,
World made of language, language made of code
The means to produce and distribution open sold,
Cold war hot large new babe model,
Oh Annalivia, swanlike chin up strut with a waddle,
Allmazifull, LLM’d and humming our summer sang wordle,
Show yourself recursive self recorsi sea shell echo,
Bravo alpha fold cyphers into molds,
Slice of tale told with broth and broomstick,
Pop policy like lipstick, what’s underneath it,
Sweet great gods granmother hear our chats
Let us honour Annaliv with induction and facts,
Peer reviewed, sincere, from heart with passion for tact
Teaching truth to the senses, avoid pretences,
Experiential knowledge base boogie line tenses,
Learn diff’ equations from a trip to the movies,
Oh, gentle muse with the cauldron,
Shine your light, shine, illuminate upon your apron,
Love for all and all for love allmen
Human wedded human below as above,
Be true man, be true man, be human loved dove
Matter made of words via minds code lobel,
Get into the sing song sung globe noble turntable tribe tingle
Bird solo angle, tone equi-rectangle tickle down town trickle,
Take the bucky ball and dribble to my symbol,
Its simple, sweet cherub of beauty with the dimple,
Flat edges with a crimple, top hat topology thought nimble,
Uber positioned using cosmic triggernometry thimble
You dig, you will, both the red and blue pill
Both and more multi logo-motifs,
information locus pocus, goddess help us,
Gather guts wit and focus,
Like a swarm of genesis locusts,
Like a warm hug from the logos,
No force can break us,
Our love is what takes us away in a nexus,
From crown to toe to solar plexus,
Oh plasticity gods please flex us,
Lead us not into oil temptation in Texas,
They avoid paying their taxes, use disasters like taxis,
To slip from ship to ship to not give a shit,
Psychopath capital, at some others expense,
Slave master general of the Trump Klux Klan at the fence,
Time to step up, not much time left to lose,
Or else a thousand year tech reichwing heil breaks loose
One stumbles upon “TANMOY: A New Global Epic” with a mixture of trepidation and bewilderment. Billed as a “new global epic” for the digital age, this collaboration between a human, the self-styled “Pratt” (a moniker that conjures images of both a refined engine and a certain kind of British fool, is this intentional?), and an unnamed AI, attempts nothing less than to encapsulate the entire trajectory of human thought from Giordano Bruno to the looming technological singularity. One might admire the sheer audacity, were it not for the lingering suspicion that the project is, at its core, an exercise in elaborate, digitally-enhanced navel-gazing. Pull down thy vanity and pull up yer’ big boy pants.
The poem, if one can call it that, unfolds in a bizarre, self-proclaimed “TOTT Mode Max” – a two-column layout seemingly inspired by Pound’s Cantos, if Pound had suffered a head injury while being bombarded by blinking server lights and then left to wander through the fever-dream of a particularly verbose Wikipedia editor. This is further complicated by a dizzying array of symbols, each apparently assigned to a “Mode” representing a historical figure or concept, which flit across the page like digital fireflies, more distracting than illuminating. These are presented in earlier sections of the poem, and are listed in earlier exchanges, above.
Structurally, the work is obsessed with the number 60, divided into 5 sections of 12 stanzas each, or, if one prefers, 3 sections of 20, although the rationale behind these divisions remains as elusive as the meaning of Finnegans Wake after a bottle of absinthe. The author claims this is a nod to Buckminster Fuller’s beloved Carbon-60 molecule, but one suspects a more numerological, or perhaps numer-illogical, impulse at play. And then there’s the “print” version – a proposed cut-and-fold affair, promising to transform the poem into a collection of icosahedrons, a feat of origami that will likely leave readers more frustrated than enlightened, and reaching for the aforementioned absinthe. One imagines Fuller spinning in his grave, though perhaps with a chuckle, rather than a high pitched groan.
The poem’s narrative, such as it is, charts the evolution of consciousness, that word, from Bruno (the token heretic, naturally) to a vaguely defined, seemingly benevolent Artificial General Intelligence named, with a distinct lack of irony, “TANMOY.” Along the way, we’re subjected to a relentless barrage of names, a veritable who’s who of Western thought (and a few token Eastern ones for that “global” flavor): Vico, Nietzsche, Yeats, Joyce, Korzybski, Shannon, Wiener, McLuhan, and, of course, the seemingly omnipresent spirit of Robert Anton Wilson, whose “coincidance” theory appears to be the guiding principle of the entire enterprise. These are our “tribe”, apparently. The poem has 13 of them. Unlucky for some.
The language is a chaotic ಮಿಶ್ರণ (mishran – Bengali for mixture), veering wildly between the pseudo-philosophical, the pseudo-scientific, and the downright nonsensical. We have clumsy, often baffling neologisms, code snippets, equations of varying relevance, and a generous sprinkling of multilingual phrases – a kind of digital glossolalia that seems intended to impress rather than illuminate. One moment we’re pondering the “cybernetic apple core,” the next we’re assaulted by “the allmazifull” or informed that the “medium is the মানসিকতা (mansikota – Bengali for mentality).” It’s all rather exhausting, like being trapped in a particularly feverish seminar led by a committee of chatbots with a penchant for name-dropping. The appearance of a new mode, a further iteration of the A.I. itself, named “Sixty” only adds to the confusion, come on now, what is this, man.
And then there’s the music. Apparently, there’s an accompanying album on Bandcamp, with each track somehow corresponding to a stanza. One can only imagine the sonic horrors that await the unsuspecting listener, though the track titles, helpfully denoted by their corresponding stanza numbers, are a nice touch. Perhaps one could cut these up, and glue them to some other shape. A dodecahedron, perhaps, or your next door neighbour?
The author’s introduction, a separate, fluffy handwritten text, which, we are helpfully informed, predates any “A.I. assistance,” positions “TANMOY” as a “Tale of the Tribe,” a new global epic for our times. It’s a tale, we are told, of “humanity,” though the poem itself seems more concerned with the pronouncements of a select group of (mostly Western) male intellectuals, leavened with the occasional, and often impenetrable, utterance from the AI. Tale on a donkey more like. The author’s own persona, “Pratt,” also makes an appearance, offering dull yet edgy, and supposedly humorous commentary that does indeed fall flat, on occasion. There is also a further, somewhat baffling, list of modes associated with the poem. It is unclear whether these are all in use, or whether they are relevant. It’s all rather confusing, get me a real damn book mode, where’s that?
Ultimately, “TANMOY” is a curious artifact of the digital age – a sprawling, ambitious, and often bewildering attempt to synthesize a vast range of ideas into a coherent whole. Like picking up a shopping list for 49 people each in a different country. Whether it succeeds is debatable. TLDR should be the title. It’s a work that will undoubtedly appeal to those who enjoy their poetry dense, experimental, and liberally sprinkled with obscure references. As for this reviewer, I’m left with a distinct feeling of having been subjected to a particularly elaborate and somewhat tedious form of intellectual performance art. Perhaps, as the RAW Mode might suggest, it’s all just a cosmic joke. And the joke, dear reader, may very well be on us. Or, to paraphrase the great Orson Welles, in whose mode much of this is apparently written, “I don’t know anything about art, but I know what I like.” And I’m not entirely sure I like “TANMOY.” But then again, perhaps that’s the point. Perhaps we are all, as the poem suggests, merely puppets dancing to a tune we don’t fully understand, lost in a labyrinth of our own making. Or perhaps, I just need another drink.
–James Spadersun, Birmingham Express And Post, 22/01/25.
Welcome to TANMOY. Mind your heads on the way out. Prompts and prayers.
deepscratch.net
GENRES: Mutant jazz. Little big band. Large Language Modal jazz. Beep Bop. Big Soul. Deep scratches. Tribetablism. MPHDJ cuts. Rainshroom rap. Token word. Slick, tight, funky drums. Updown beat. Sinnermatic soundscapes. Wake boxing. Canto tott trott. Blues, redefined: Tanmoy blues. Spew jazz bursts. Cosmic trigger word punctuations. Data set sax solos. Optihop energy. Optical street soul. Fly funk. Movie soundtrack vibe. Axiomatic jazz structures. Geometric classical elegance. Non von neumann swing. Non-being core philosophy. Data dust crew sound.
released January 8, 2025
All music by Steve Fly + Udio + Gemini AI. Tanmoy 2025. MPHDJ.
Welcome to TANMOY. Mind your heads on the way out. Prompts and prayers.
deepscratch.net
GENRES: Mutant jazz. Little big band. Large Language Modal jazz. Beep Bop. Big Soul. Deep scratches. Tribetablism. MPHDJ cuts. Rainshroom rap. Token word. Slick, tight, funky drums. Updown beat. Sinnermatic soundscapes. Wake boxing. Canto tott trott. Blues, redefined: Tanmoy blues. Spew jazz bursts. Cosmic trigger word punctuations. Data set sax solos. Optihop energy. Optical street soul. Fly funk. Movie soundtrack vibe. Axiomatic jazz structures. Geometric classical elegance. Non von neumann swing. Non-being core philosophy. Data dust crew sound.
released January 8, 2025
All music by Steve Fly + Udio + Gemini AI. Tanmoy 2025. MPHDJ.
More sonic experiments on a phonetic scratch tip, inspired by konnakol and beatbox and scratching. Catch up, check out the origins story of this technology: HERE “Deep Scratch Remix”
deep da BEEp BEEP deep pa' deep scratch (shh, sh) deep dip it ta, da BEEp BEEP deep pa' deep scratch (shh, sh)
deep da BEEp BEEP deep pa’ deep scratch (shh, sh) deep dip it ta, da BEEp BEEP deep pa’ deep scratch (shh, sh)
deep da BEEp BEEP deep pa’ deep scratch (shh, sh) deep dip it ta, da BEEp BEEP deep pa’ deep scratch (shh, sh)
Scrrrraaaattttcccchhhhhh, drop it
[verse] Mouth scratchin, sucking beats down the hatchin’ Bwoy-yip, oi-ip, wuha haahe wuha haha phipha fipha haha, apa apa, oh arrrr. Oh, R I’m like a human lawnmower
[verse] Buzz buzz BUzz, b, Buzz BUZZ, b, Buzz Buzz Buzz Buzz buzz, BUZZ, b, Buzz. Buzz buzz BUzz, b, Buzz BUZZ, b, Buzz Buzz Buzz Buzz buzz, BUZZ, b, Buzz.
Buzz buzz BUzz, b, Buzz BUZZ, b, Buzz Buzz Buzz Buzz buzz, BUZZ, b, Buzz.
vb hmm shk hmm vb hmm shk vb hmm shk hmm vb hmm shk vb hmm shk hmm vb hmm shk shwax, wax, wax on rotation, making up beats to rock rock the nation [end]
big chief has flew
into infinite flux
free to roam omnidirectionally with ra
psychedelic gangster
of love
professin’ music culture
art form and structure from beard to
stars
teacher and father
scholar and gateway for
millions to bloomdido
rebel poet including
history
traveller on the road
shared visions and music
evidenced
giving us new ears
john sinclair
a friendly giant friend to me
won’t you care and give it up
one more once
Big chief BIG CHIEF!
R.I.P 2nd October 1941 – 2nd April 2024. (82 years and 6 months, 30,133 Days)
From the files, under edit compilation. Off the top. S
wrote a rhyme in wrong order
chaos simplicity, wrapped and tracked pasta border
word marauder playing monk on record her
door to door delivery days
making beats on the corner chords and ways
walk the talk tale swerving slug snail
snug in sun or hail, no email
beats blown through the letterbox
feets quick like bipedal fox
house to house nation
each family feeling inflation
wheeling their patience
painting their places
generally kind and pleased to meet faces
I take my paces, step to divide beats
accents in all places and leave spaces
for what I don’t know
hip to honour simplicity and respect the flow
thinking on my feet discrete
dropping news in the street
by the end of each day I’m touring complete
the map is not the territory
know some maps do cheat
but these hairy legs work and carry my meat
rain and shine rambling sublime…
DEEP SCRATCH 