Life on Mars

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In real life, my strangeness is my own hell. Deaf with remorse: the shrieks of memory are an ancient violin, while through every catacomb radioactive blood scans unseen ravines of fear. Death on the red planet is not death. On the red planet it is when you don’t move.

But when you come near, it’s time for us to roll over and be dreamy. The sun blows while we dream, making love. There are pomegranates on the moon, I said. I was a poet only in bed, you said. My moon. And I’m your statue, my strangeness gone. Moon profane with miracle, I kiss your white pit, your faithful teeth, your honest skin, your gleaming stone. The first time we touch exists only in our hearts. Your light kills.

Artificial Intelligence-Generated Poetry from a Dataset of Willis Barnstone’s Sonnets (Programmed and Collated by Bilal Shaw & Tony Barnstone)