Experiments in Automatic Writing: Goth-O-Matic Poetry Generator

good vibes, poetry, writing

the blackest gift

Dedicated to Ebony Dark’ness Dementia Raven Way (aka Enoby)

It is a night of dark desire, a song of subtlety,

Wolves vent their loneliness,

The thirsting one stirs.

Darkness shrouds her deathly form,

a timeless desire. Her

silken hair cascades over ashen

shoulders, and her full scarlet lips part slightly,

to taste the life streaming from the weakened flesh

beneath her. Now a night of ecstasy, I hunger.

Rose Hill Cemetery, Oxford, UK © 2022 C L Barton. All rights reserved.

generated with the Goth-O-Matic poetry generator at https://www.deadlounge.com/poetry/



I loved them less than she did. She cooed and exclaimed so rapturously over their cuteness, however, that I couldn’t refuse. Our garden soon became cluttered with gnomes. Their malevolent, smirking little painted beardy-weirdy faces were forever watching me, as I stood by the back door smoking, or by the kitchen sink washing up; and I’m certain they jinxed that barbecue last week… they laughed (silently) at me when I burned the pork chops, anyway. They know I love them less than she… they know, in fact, that I fucking hate ’em! And the feeling is mutual. And I sense they want rid of me. And she, because she loves them so, will side with them, any day.

And the gnomes know. So they bide their time, and wait, and smirk, and stare beadily at me as I chain-smoke, driven to it by the strain of this uncanny situation.

© 2022 C L Barton. All rights reserved.

The History of Haze


Note: The following story is a remix inspired by a writing exercise from Mark Amerika: “Go to Gutenberg.org and find a text in a language you do not speak. Line by line, cut and paste that text into an online auto-translation program and use that auto-translation as source material to remix a totally new story. If your source text is pornographic, try and keep some of the original text in your remix so as to defamiliarize the mundane.”(Amerika, 2016) The text I used is Han Xiang Zi Quan Chuan. Author: Anonymous

The History of Haze

The shepherd boy, the forbidden beauty, wakes up happy in the Underworld.

The Underworld, where Chaos first divides the world, where yin and yang cooperate with adults. Where the demon becomes a god, God becomes a deer; and the pines and cypresses wither.

Snoring is not a good cause. There is no contradiction between the good and bad life –Buddhism is asking for a kiss in a dream, the demon complained. There is no mistreatment or obsceneness. The apocalypse is in the history of haze.

The shepherd boy knows even tortoises live forever with good breath.

Cranes fly into the sky with algae gods. It’s not qi, the demon complained.

However, the shepherd boy knows, mountains and rivers remain constant, and water flows constantly.

However, the demon knows, mountains and rivers sometimes collapse and overflow, and when qi is stagnant, they become impassable.

Even tortoises have qi. The shepherd boy flirts.

And if it loses its power, it will be like the fog of the morning dew, wilting, cocoon and death, the demon complains. Desire to live forever, to be satisfied? Touch the mountain, and the snail king. Repair the sky. It is the immortal, the first to be clever and angry, who is impoverished.

The shepherd boy knows all things can be viewed in the dark – the spirit; the big dream of tribulation; stupidity. The shepherd boy flirts. The shepherd boy, the forbidden beauty. The shepherd boy will never grow old.

The demon will never doubt the mountains and quench the flames of the fire.

The demon and the shepherd boy discuss riding on the green phoenix in Danqiu (super), where the wood is tall and verdant but not withered, where the sea of ​​bitterness is quiet, and the waves of the sky in the north; they discuss riding on the phoenix in the Xuanpu (rare), where the grass is everlasting and beautiful, where the fields change into the sea.

They discuss red fruit. They discuss the truth. They discuss the Buddha’s brilliant bones; the mother of gold; the six dragons; the five pictures, the eight stones, the nine essences; the five colors and the eight sounds. They discuss the sun and the moon, the stars, thunder; birds and beasts, insects and fish; the strange story of the gods and ghosts.

The demon flirts. The shepherd boy is magnificent. The fire demon knows the power of the shepherd boy.

The fire demon: (Complains) Rules and regulations are complicated and wrong. Proverbs are crooked, a false communiqué; and truth the secret text, the illusion of the world of the poor. Today’s people, the secret of their spirit. A biography. The title: Chant Of The Public.

The shepherd boy: Vomit the strangeness.

The demon: Pass to the trail, mark the residuals, such as in the table of contents. The new edition, the article strange and magnificent. Out of reincarnation and high astrology, eternal proof of lifelessness.

Remember, seize the golden bridge, the city gate; head from head to head. Seize a cloud and a sentence across the Mountains. Seize the heart of a foolish village woman. Seize the ears of the children. Seize the Qi.

The shepherd boy: Pray for the snow, pray for the fetus. Show the vastness of the magical powers; call the dragon saint with hands. Nurture the circle of change.


poetry, writing

I watch his rotting corpse on livestream,
I see the worms within devour his brain.
Putrefaction; abreaction.
The stage is set. The rot sets in.

His fetid flesh falls away from
his putrid bones.
Necrotizing fascism.
Dead man talking,
he never stops.
He never dies.

When will he die?
He never dies.
Why won’t he die?
He never does.
He never will. It never ends.
He festers forever
live on air.

He summons his flunkeys,
his lying monkeys.
They fly to him to do his bidding.
Eager to meet him,
anxious to please him,
skimming over the airwaves,
they fill the sky.

C L Barton 2022 all rights reserved

De Chirico on Art and Human Limits

art, Consciousness, Dreams, Musings, Symbols
The Soothsayer’s Recompense. Giorgio de Chirico, 1913. Oil painting. Source: Wikipedia/The Independent

“To become truly immortal, a work of art must escape all human limits: logic and common sense will only interfere. But once these barriers are broken, it will enter the realms of childhood visions and dreams.” Giorgio de Chirico.

“Sensitiveness, in life as in painting and all forms of art, is incontestably a quality appertaining to the human being who possesses it. It is much easier to recognise the sensitiveness of a human being in life than the sensitiveness of an artist in his work…. to be truly sensitive in life, a human being must possess many other qualities; for one cannot conceive of a human being endowed with sensitiveness alone… while being in every other respect unintelligent, wicked, envious, miserly and gossipy. The sensitiveness which is attributed to a given human being is inconceivable unless the spirit of this human being be, as a whole, noble, full of goodness and endowed of course with a certain intelligence.
In other words, sensitiveness as a moral quality is never found alone, but forms part of a whole ensemble of superior qualities united in the character and intellect of a man or woman….
In life a human being’s sensitiveness can be tested by facts; but sensitiveness… when applied to a work of art does not exist. And when someone, speaking of a picture, tells me that it shows sensitiveness, I can only reply that I am ready to believe as much, but only on condition that it can be proven.
… in art, it is not the subject but only quality that matters. The value of an artist consists not in what he does, but solely in how he does it.”

G. de Chirico, ‘Sensitiveness’, an essay, Metaphysical Art 2010| N° 9/10, available via fondazionedechirico.org (2019/07/14)

Wisdom dispersed

poetry, writing

She would talk while walking
It was hard to hear what she said.
She spoke so softly,
without turning her head,
without slowing her pace
While the city streets roared alongside us
beset by traffic,
suspended in time and space.

Ambulance and police sirens blazed by blaring
As her half-heard words drifted to me on the breeze,
to be blown away.

Such a shame,
She knew so much
all the ancient history of an ancient city,
of this strange city,
an ancient wisdom
that she seemed to want to share.

Yet she strode along at such a pace
and she neither slowed
nor spoke louder.

So her wisdom was lost,
dispersed on the breath
of the misty grey morning,
as we traversed the cobbled alleys,
until we reached the rampant dark heart of the centre,
where she, without a goodbye,
scurried off to her regular haunt,
the little old theology library at Grisfrères.

Copyright © 2021 by C L Barton
All rights reserved.


Consciousness, Life, music

‘I have discovered from an abundance of experience that we have the ability to love even though we are not wise and do not love as we could.’
[Swedenborg, Divine Love and Wisdom]

‘The universal solvent is a person who has developed divine love in his heart. Love is what dissolves all resistances.’  [Alejandro Jodorowsky, Psychomagic: ‘Keys to the Soul’]

‘… love is an art, like music. It gives emotion of the same order, as delicate, as vibrant, perhaps even more intense…’ [Louys, ‘Chrysis’, Ch 1: Aphrodite]

Languages (microfiction)


She asked me how many languages I used to speak. Five, I said, or six; not all equally fluently, of course. In fact, none fluently. Same for her, she said, then started listing them: French; Portuguese; Spanish, and a little Catalan; and she could read and even write Anglo-Saxon; and Ancient Greek and Latin.

Que coincidencia, said I, same here; except not Spanish, nor Catalan; but Irish and a smattering of Scottish-Gaelic instead.

Often that’s how it is, she said, when I encounter people like yourself – like me! – us Old Souls, who remember our former incarnations in other lifetimes… quand on parle tantos idiomas diferentes, nimium facile est for us to pick them them iterum in nos vies actuelles, and thus end up with essa mistura, or algo parecido. Alors, nao estou certo por que isso é sed, talvez, todos nós temos alguma coneçao?

I said, b’fhéidir gur cuimhin linn ár saol roimhe seo, agus quo modo, dòigh air choireigin bidh sinn a ‘cumail comharran air ar n-eòlas?

Copyright © 2022 by C L Barton. All rights reserved.

The White Goddess

books, Folklore, poetry, Symbols, writing

“The Goddess is a lovely, slender woman with a hooked nose, deathly pale face, lips red as rowan berries, startlingly blue eyes and long fair hair; she will suddenly transform herself into sow, mare, bitch, vixen, she-ass, weasel, serpent, owl, she-wolf, tigress, mermaid or loathsome hag. Her names and titles are innumerable. In ghost stories she often figures as ‘The White Lady’, and in ancient religions… as the ‘White Goddess’. I cannot think of any true poet… who has not independently recorded his experience of her. The truth of a poet’s vision, one might say, is the accuracy of his [sic.] portrayal of the White Goddess, and of the island over which she rules…. a true poem is necessarily an invocation of the W.G., or Muse, the Mother of All Living, the ancient power of fright and lust…” (Graves The White Goddess p24)

The Grave

amazing places, favourite places, poetry
Ancient yew at Iffley Church cemetery Copyright © 2021 by C L Barton
All rights reserved.

Well do I know thee trusty Yew,
Cheerless unsocial plant, that loves to dwell.
Midst skulls and coffins, epitaphs and worms,
Where light healed ghosts and visionary shades,
Beneath the wan cold moon (as fame reports),
Embody’d thick perform their majestic rounds,
No other merriment, dull tree is thine.

(Robert Blair)