Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.022 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.

Human Cylinders

by Mina Loy

−0.1505 + 0.1035i

Drawing the boundary…

And if I die

by Edna St. Vincent Millay

−0.1313 + 0.1148i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

Each poem scrolls on its own, so the two texts stay beside each other.

Human Cylinders

by Mina Loy

The human cylinders
Revolving in the enervating dust
That wraps each closer in the mystery
Of singularity
Among the litter of a sunless afternoon
Having eaten without tasting
Talked without communion
And at least two of us
Loved a very little
Without seeking
To know if our two miseries
In the lucid rush-together of automatons
Could form one opulent well-being

Simplifications of men
In the enervating dusk
Your indistinctness
Serves me the core of the kernel of you
When in the frenzied reaching-out of intellect to intellect
Leaning brow to brow            communicative
Over the abyss of the potential
Concordance of respiration
Shames
Absence of corresponding between the verbal sensory
And reciprocity
Of conception
And expression
Where each extrudes beyond the tangible
One thin pale trail of speculation
From among us we have sent out
Into the enervating dusk
One little whining beast
Whose longing
Is to slink back to antediluvian burrow
And one elastic tentacle of intuition
To quiver among the stars

The impartiality of the absolute
Routs           the polemic
Or which of us
Would not
Receiving the holy-ghost
Catch it         and caging
   Lose it
Or in the problematic
Destroy the Universe
With a solution.

And if I die

by Edna St. Vincent Millay

And if I die, because that part of me
Which part alone of me had chance to live,
Chose to be honours threshing-floor, a sieve
Where right through wrong might make its way, and be;
If from all taint of indignation, free
Must be my art, and thereby fugitive
From all that threatens it—why—let me give
To moles my dubious immortality.

For, should I cancel by one passionate screed
All that in chaste reflection I have writ,
So that again not ever in bright need
A man shall want my verse and reach for it,
I and my verses will be dead indeed,—
That which we died to champion, hurt no whit.

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