Andrew McSorley
Two Poems
I Ask the GPT Why I’m Not Happy Anymore; Or, We Can Write that for You Wholesale
The solution is to track, impose order on order,
the celibate supercomputer. A scent of rainbow
hope edges a scientific soul, but we can learn
to imagine without analyzing, tolerate
the experience, the living dragging on
until a voice comes from nowhere,
grants a solution to track our soul,
our order of imagination with rainbow hope,
the scent of living, the analysis
of a celibate supercomputer dragging
our souls whining neon to the court
of nowhere. Nothing to do with
all this money, the lyrics, obliging eyes,
headphones full of white men, full
of flowery names, full of black forest,
full of cracked windows sparking
a darkened fence, full of what you saw
through the window where grey
industrial night left the apron of sky
wedged open and your sorry excuse
for fingertips drew to her, sterile
and unreal, answers disinterested,
sometimes an anti-world light,
sometimes a fear rung down the throat.
Some things you feel, some things
fit you. Why can’t you look deep
in the air, why can’t you glance
between? This is vindication,
this is the changing summer,
how peacefully you can kneel
between the nuclear siphoning
of reason and the technocracy
of death. This is the camera
moving hysterically as you carve
a candle from a crystal cup,
this is the blowing out of flame,
how peacefully you kneel in the harvest.
Sunday Pastoral
1.)
I heard the sun murmuring an old song
2.)
The last time I saw you was the first
way I saw you. In the middle of a life
there is thorn and color.
3.)
In the middle of a life
there is thorn and color.
The body of the sea holds
a skyline of syllables.
I imitate all of it in a circle.
4.)
A blank mind abandoned in the field.
Hell is a nation undivided. The body
of the sea holds a skyline of syllables.
Your eyes are deep brown.
5.)
The ocean magically pushing naked salt, blood. I imitate all of it
in a circle. Time makes a life sweet to burn.
People pair and relax in eternity. Laughing, we blanket the quiet earth.
6.)
I heard the sun murmuring an old song.
Birds in trees scatter. Promises forgotten in carelessness.
The orchard's body lies open. Time makes a life
Sweet to burn. Distracted rain, distracted solitude.
7.)
Old groves of careless apples. I imitate all of it in a circle. The freckled fruit
in a sandbox. Birds in trees scatter. Pages run to find
themselves. A prism arrives before the light.
Laughing, we blanket the quiet earth.
8.)
I heard the sun murmuring an old song. Distracted rain, distracted solitude.
Hell is a nation undivided. In the middle of a life
there is thorn and color. Birds in trees scatter. Your eyes
are deep brown. People pair and relax in eternity.
I imitate all of it in a circle.
Andrew McSorley is the author of the poetry collection What Spirits Return (Kelsay Books, 2019). He holds a PhD in English and Creative Writing from the University of Southern Mississippi. His poetry has previously appeared in journals such as The Minnesota Review, HAD, UCity Review, Poet Lore, and many others. He lives in Petal, Mississippi and is currently the Postdoctoral Digital Humanities Scholar at the Mississippi Digital Humanities Hub.
Instagram: @andrew_myron