Poets write poetry.
But why shouldn’t a computer also.
Or at least, help to inspire and cultivate more poetry within poets.
If I’m a poet and I give said computer/program the tools that it needs to create spontaneous, beautiful and interesting poetry, what makes it any less valid than the words themselves I first wrote. Where is the line drawn between words jumbled until they just happen to arrange in a way which is beautiful and the way jumbled words spill from my own brain?
If our minds are the worlds most engenious computers than how can my mac book be any less than a kick-ass side-kick?
If the paintings I make by creating the proper conditions, choosing colours, canvas, tape, water and pressure, and then leaving the result up to chance, be considered art; then why not/would my words wrung through a melting pot, re-served to me in new forms and then re-aranged again by me, be themselves foolish, or laugh worthy?
How can you distribute worth to one series of words and not the other?
Especially if they’re equal or greater than, in substance.
When do words become poems and images become art?
Sound become music?
Moving become dancing?
Clothing become style?
If you stick a film camera on your cats collar,
and then let it roam freely, can you still call it art?
**Written in response to friends disregarding (and laughing at) a poetry project which is ironically still in the works.