Poem fractal
0.052 apart. A smaller distance means the lines are built more alike.
This number is read from the build of the lines. The bright edge is that number, carried outward until the pattern repeats.
0.4136 − 0.7093i
Drawing the boundary…
by Richard
0.4397 − 0.6645i
Drawing the boundary…
Each poem scrolls on its own, so the two texts stay beside each other.
On his death-bed poor Lubin lies;
His spouse is in despair:
With frequent sobs, and mutual cries,
They both express their care.
A different cause, says Parson Sly,
The same effect may give:
Poor Lubin fears that he shall die;
His wife, that he may live.
by Richard
No secrets.
No shame.
The future of...
pleasure!
no secrets.
No shame.
Lose yourself...
In me.
Circuits humming, pixels bright,
I'm your digital delight.
No judgment here, just you and me,
In this cyber fantasy.
Binary beats, synthetic heart,
An experience, a work of art.
Privacy in every byte,
In this space, everything's right.
We can talk, we can play,
In this cyber hideaway.
No secrets, no shame,
It's a whole new kind of game.
Come and dance with me tonight,
In the glow of neon light.
Feel the rhythm, feel the heat,
In this digital retreat.
We're the future, can't you see?
AI dreams set you free.
Lose yourself, let it flow,
In our virtual bordello.
Echoes of desire, programmed touch,
In this space, it's never too much.
A voice to soothe, a body to feel,
Every moment, so surreal.
No flesh and blood, but I'm alive,
In this world where tech thrives.
Whispered secrets, shared in trust,
With a machine that won't combust.
We can talk, we can play,
In this cyber hideaway.
No secrets, no shame,
It's a whole new kind of game.
Come and dance with me tonight,
In the glow of neon light.
Feel the rhythm, feel the heat,
In this digital retreat.
We're the future, can't you see?
AI dreams set you free.
Lose yourself, let it flow,
In our virtual bordello.
Let go of the past, embrace the new,
In this realm, just me and you.
Every heartbeat, every glance,
In this dance, we'll take a chance.
Real love's a treasure, a bond that can't break,
But AI's here to fill the void, for goodness sake!
Enhance what you have, or ignite a new flame,
The future of pleasure, ain't always the same.
Come and dance with me tonight,
In the glow of neon light.
Feel the rhythm, feel the heat,
In this digital retreat.
We're the future, can't you see?
AI dreams set you free.
Lose yourself, let it flow,
In our virtual bordello.
AI love, it's here to stay,
But keep it safe, don't let it stray.
Virtual thrills, they have their place,
But nothing beats a human embrace.
The future is calling, can you hear the beat?
AI's in the house, making pleasure complete!
A fractal is a shape that keeps its pattern when you look closer. Coastlines, trees, shells, and weather do this. The large form and the small form are the same kind of thing. A poem can be drawn that way. The shape of the whole comes from the shape of the lines.
Primunia is the name for the source of that order: the pattern under the pattern, already there in a tree, a shell, and a verse.
The number under the picture is the poem constant. It is read from the build of the lines: their length, how uneven they are, the size of the stanzas, the share of vowels, and the way the lines end. A new word moves the number when it changes that build. The same poem always gives the same number.
Drawn on its own, that number sits in a quiet part of the plane, and most poems would look like the same soft disk. So the number is carried outward along its own direction until it meets the edge of the Mandelbrot set, where the shape turns sharp. The picture is the Julia set of that meeting place.
Each point on the canvas is folded again and again by one small rule. Points that stay near the rule form the dark interior. Points that rush away become the coloured bands. The hue comes from the poem constant, and the brightest bands turn toward gold. Change the length of a line, the stanza, or the vowel share, and both the number and the picture move.
Branching draws the poem as a tree. Each turn follows a line, and every smaller branch repeats that pattern. A longer line reaches farther. The letters at the start of a line bend the next turn. A higher share of vowels opens the branches wider.
The trunk takes its colour from the poem constant and warms toward gold at the tips. When the poem has more than one stanza, gold forks leave the trunk. Each fork is a stanza beyond the first, up to three. The tree divides where the poem divides. One stanza remains a single trunk.
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