<center><strong>(a trillion / quite tiny / little poems)</strong></center>
<center>[[another quite tiny little poem|434]] - [[about]]</center>(set: $one to (random: 1, 174))(set: $two to (random: 1001, 1174))(set: $three to (random: 10001, 10174))(set: $onestring to (text: $one))(set: $twostring to (text: $two))(set: $threestring to (text: $three))(set: $two to $two-1000)(set: $three to $three-10000)
<strong>quite tiny little poem #$one.$two.$three</strong>
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(display: $threestring)<center><strong>(a trillion / quite tiny / little poems)</strong></center>
<center>[[another quite tiny little poem|434]] - [[about]]</center>(set: $one to (random: 1, 174))(set: $two to (random: 1001, 1174))(set: $three to (random: 10001, 10174))(set: $onestring to (text: $one))(set: $twostring to (text: $two))(set: $threestring to (text: $three))(set: $two to $two-1000)(set: $three to $three-10000)
*a trillion / quite tiny / little poems* generates untold billions of quite tiny little poems in a miniature haiku format of 4 then 3 then 4 syllables
or at least it tries too but sometimes the source poems get their meter completely wrong for reasons i am simply unable to explain (reason/explanation: i am quite poor at poems)
the 174 source poems can be found in six small anthologies <a href="https://accumulationofthings.com/things/2019/08/08/4-3-4/" target="_blank">here</a>, <a href="https://accumulationofthings.com/things/2019/09/06/4-3-4-2/" target="_blank">here</a>, <a href="https://accumulationofthings.com/things/2019/10/01/4-3-4-3/" target="_blank">here</a>, <a href="https://accumulationofthings.com/things/2019/10/16/4-3-4-4/" target="_blank">here</a>, <a href="https://accumulationofthings.com/things/2019/10/24/4-3-4-anxiety-suite/" target="_blank">here</a> and <a href="https://accumulationofthings.com/things/2023/08/23/4-3-4-6/" target="_blank">here</a>
(this means rather than a trillion tiny poems there's only 5,268,024, but maybe 5,268,024 is the secret definition of a quite tiny little trillion or somethging, maybe, perhaps, possibly)
anyway occassionally it blurts out something surprisingly beautiful
though more often as not it just churns out rubbish
please do not hate me
<strong>quite tiny little poem #$one.$two.$three</strong>
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(display: $threestring)i keep writingthese poemsin 4/3/4i don’t know whybut my brainjust will not stopconfiguringall my thoughtsinto this formtiny littlefaux haikudrifting awaya cloud of thoughtbarely formeda ghost of wordsminiaturisedgroups of soundsshorn of meaningso anywayhere they areyou have been warnedno one loves meeven thoughi think they shouldi cannot breathewith your handupon my heartthe octopusgrips my armlike a lost childa delicatedust shadowrevelationi spent a poundon some sweetsand ate them allwhat differencewould it makeif i smiledi keep lookingat the bloodtrickling awaywhat is the pointof all thiswith no one herewatched the footballit was shityet i’ll watch morethis glass of milkhas a flydying in iti don’t feel wellanymoreand nor do youi am havinga breakdownin poetryit was busyin the parki ate some chipsits so windyall the binsblew down the roadhis twitter postscame and wentand went and wentit’s possiblei missed itnot ignored itthe book was goodi liked iti read some moreThus Were Their Faceswas the booki was readingits titledid not quite fitbreaking all the rulescovered in inkfrom leakingcheap broken pensi was offeredkind advicefrightened, i ransometimes i tryto escapethe bounds of spacemy headphones fellon the floorthey were alrightwasting my timeas if itmeans anythingthe plastic bagsjellyfishedacross the parkif i could dieit would bequite the reliefsome more poemsall writtenin 4/3/4beneath the starson my backi lay weepinga near full moonsurroundedby wisps of cloudi have learned muchforgottenmany times morepigeon orgyon the roofi look awaythey closed the pubyears agoleft it to rotthe contrails sweepin curved arcsacross the skystorm clouds approachthunder heardno lightning seensuddenly nowi feel sickfaint, my eyes weepi sleep soundlythrough the nightand through the daywent to the shopsit rained andrained and rained andthere’s a spiderhanging therewaiting, waitingsat beneath aparasoland did not movehair wet with sweathead throbbingi cannot sleepi was lonelythen i waslonelier stillthe sun went inthe wind blewearly autumna sausage dogprancing bygrinning, grinninga pound a bagby the pondto buy duck foodi put awaythe rubbishothers had lefta small forestof dead treesall turned to boneif i can changemy own mindyou can change yoursi’d never readthis beforebut now i havei feel so tiredall the timeold bones achingrewriting thispoem tookseveral hoursa tiny scrapof papercontaining thison the riveran egretamongst the gullsfisherman’s boatfishermanfisherman’s dogfollowing onfrom the firstand the secondhere are some4/3/4sthey will not stoptowards the sunthen turn, turn,towards the moonsquirrel, fox, fox(couldn’t tell)crow, pheasant, foxcows in long grassmotionlessbelow the bridgesmell of burnt leavescanal boatscene out of timethe foliageyellowingbrowning, fallingthe trees have goneall yellowconkers fallenthe noise of rainwithout endon plastic roofsi like the wordautumnalit’s nice to saypark in autumnis nicerthan in summerpark in winterbest of allice underfoot*david which film**snowhite or**littel mermade*everyone checksthe weatherand then stays homei get so scared(who knows why)by centipedesscaffolding makesme feel abit uneasyjust thinking ofspace in itsinfinityan aching backshort of breathunfocused eyeshappiness goneyet bad dreamslingering ona museumof radarin concrete hutbirdsong and waveswhere the woodsreach the sea wallhelicopterand a droneboth the same sizea pug snufflingand sneezingwheezing, whiningthis dog looks likea huge toyfluffed up, alive“she won’t hurt you,”he says whilehis dog bites medon’t eat breakfastfeel quite illwhen i wake upeat a sandwichfollow thatwith cake and cokecook too much foodfeel quite illfor rest of dayyet anothercollectionof these poemsthat aren’t reallypoems atall, now, are theythe whole point ofthis is thatit annoys youthere is not aclear way tosay this at alli don’t like thispen but itsall i have leftink doesn’t flowcorrectlyacross the pagescratching awaythe papereach word a scarleft the lid offink’s gone drypen thrown in bini do not likewho i ameven slightlymy brain has shrunklike a volesin midwinterlost in a dreamof a lifehazy, driftinglost in a dreamof my ownconstant failingslost in a dreamof a worldunrecognisedseven egretsin a rowstill as statuesa thousand ducksbraced againstthe winter windcrow flying offholding anegg in its beakthe cormorantdives belowgulls hover abovea swan’s featherfloating pastcaught in the windcat saunteringacross roadover the fenceroad black with rainheavy bootsjoy of puddlesthe puddle fitsperfectlyin its own holemade the mistakeof readingtwitter todaysome people seemto reallywant civil warphone-lit facespunctuatethe snaking queuecigarette smokematching breathbring your own fogthis little boxis full nowof written wordsso many wordsi shouldn’tever have saida perfect worldas silentand still as snowhaven’t felt rightall morningwoken from dreamsomething is wrongwith my heartit aches, it achesi need to crybut i’m scaredi’ll never stopnot suicidebut insteaddeath by neglectall i dream ofis to oncejust be happyanxietyrenders meincapabledepressed depresseddepressed depressed depressed dewasted a weekplaying nomans fucking skyyes i am afailureof a humani have begunto lose mywhole fucking mindmy self laid barecompetenceis beyond mei can’t keep myheart beatingany longeri cannot bringmyself tobelieve you careyes i could doanythingif i weren’t mea tirednesscreeping inneed something newmy teeth all buzzas if they’reelectrifiedimprecisionof languagea failing mindi cannot writeanythinglonger than thisone two three fourfive six seven eight nine teni would blame thison othersbut it’s all methe crows nestedin my heartthe worms, my mindi like to sitby the seadream of drowninga small comfortin the dreamas if its realbut then i wakeand somehowits not the sameplease forgive mefor my crimesi’ve repentedi’m just not goodat anything at allthere is beautyin tryingall this againsome poems wereunpublishedbut now they’re notand other onesslightly changedto fit this schemeahead of usthe journeylingering cloudsacross the pathfallen leavesred against soili am afraidto beginbut i beginunder the bridgecows gatherknee deep in mista cloud of thoughtbarely formedlike ghosts, like wordsa white featherfloating pastcatching the lighta frozen lakelit onlyby last night’s moona quiet scenefrost and snowuntouched by feetthrough the mistthe borderwe cannot seeand all aroundfrozen bluemountain flowersfrost on the stonesby firebreath becomes smokeoften am iquick to speaktoo slow to stopblooddrops on snowbleak rosesthat do not fadea sea of snowrising upever higherflesh like paperon old bonesthe heart beats onluminous dreamsof a lifefloating awaythe restless deadbury themyet they lingeri felt quite sadquite often'bout many thingsi wanted towrite somethingso i wrote thisnot enough tosee or dohere on the moonnothing was saideverythingwas clearly meanti often feellike i don’texist at allupon wakingwe wonderis this the dreamyet in our dreamsnever dowe even sleepthe grass grows longbeneath therains of summeri am tiredmore oftenthan i’m asleepa paling moonand the seaa sheet of glassall i want isto make thingsthat people likeand instead imake things likethis useless thing