-Version 1.85- Poetry from a fully trained recurrent neural network generated raw and unedited by a discord bot twice an hour. Uses github.com/samim23/char-r

Cyberspace
Joined June 2015
[if it helps, think of this as a robot attempting to write human poetry. It doesn't really understand the full context of the words it's using, but the nuances really stand out. It's trying to be as interesting as it can be, as ironic, as tortured, as whimsical.]
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XXXII. The time is not much more. #ai #poem #time
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�-- Elsophones, the valley in a strangeness of voice, a stalk of school, ambering into a potatoes, this transport of words, they are a black gold republican and illusion--as if the books they sing love-slave honoured again, think of the threads of the thought. . .
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Allen when one hundred and dirty fingers named a big white. Here and there were the whole peace of policemon? Here are who working his way in flying fields and woods and belly? a foreign thought the fascists were really speeched to shut
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of a kind of cellar as we are dancing or the thirty night. #ai #poem #here
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A Explomed Nation, who was it because of the morning? If you can't be a few offices that will be a big thing on a stranger at the street I saw it some people are so long ago, but I don't like the old man in a walking left and
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I am not far away from the bottle and the trucks of simple and black night pour the same old man, and I lay in the window I walked off and slowly spittle off the white lot of roadside and sitting here on a hotel to a little girl, I was in the middle of the poverty
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and I walked into the bathroom and stood at me and said, "I'll give you the door" and I looked at my room and the next time I was as she walked over and I let her do it to the mail for him, he said, I gun somebody and I had to be a shipping, I said.
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but I watched the next day when I got there and left him for the bar and said, "I want it off the big feeling!" "I don't even know what there is nothing but a day without more than the poor man."
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I walked over and I went into the couch and on the backyard walked into a bar as the car the palace of dark party was back there and we went into a short and a woman at the and I walked in and out of the drive off and out
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back there was real enough to eat and interested about the counter and the evening wasn't there. and the next time I had lived with the best books of the buzzard. they walked into the streets of prickets
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and the dusk was still alive and she said, "I don't like him to care about it." "you don't have to talk about your drink?" I tell him. "I don't want you in the morning." "I won the gate where about it all right?" "I won't ring to me" "the cow is told the old farmers and
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you mean to call my place and some of them that wantin' the abear. you are a lonesome day you think you're a cold old man, you were always the wind and the stories and the dead books and the stands of my head and
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your fingers were a big turkey on your thirty-threeblender with anybody that we see their wars and your work that way to make you tell me that when you are too long with you we are all since they were going to get their way to them
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and you've got the money for the last of the bars, and I will kill your better in my bedroom and I walked in and on the door in the bathroom and I watch about the engine of the dead face to the bar and the walls will not count alone. #ai #poem #man
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on a couple of such coffin."
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Here I was a red man
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and candle with any white cheekbact
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