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Bayesian, the name of that yacht. Elementary, my dear Wat!

Scilla and Charybdis frequent the strait at Messina.

Water-spouts round Sicily are nothing new, it seems to me.

Another old dilemma has still to be resolved in the wake

Of any revolt – as is suggested by Percy Bysshe Shelley’s

Returning to the idiom in his essay A Defence of Poetry –  

Put with some pith, and still as true as it was in 1820:

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“The rich have become richer, and the poor have become

Poorer; and the vessel of the state is driven between

The Scylla and Charybdis of despotism and anarchy.”

Analysis in Bayesian ways factors in advertisement,

Codifies prior knowledge in the form of a predicted

Distribution – so you know what profit you might make

Given you promote the item, even if it proves a fake.

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And yet the best of plans may go awry and splendid lies

Go bottom up, just as extravagent yachts may capsize.

MK Ultra’s agents, unaware of their acts, morph into maniacs.

When entities arrive at their extreme, they turn into

Their opposite. Freud observed this in the way a dream

May substitute wet for hot, sour for the forbidden sweet

We each of us long to consume. Entanglement of true crime

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And mythology? The yacht with the tallest mast in the world

Appears to have been sucked under by a water spout.

I turn in early, much new stuff to dream about.

The dream I have however, delves with some nostalgia

Into my lecturer days to earn my bread. And Jason arrives for a tutorial.

Since leaving art-school he has been afflicted by a

Wasting disease. Now he exists within a glass case

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With circular holes to respire. His brain’s enclosed in chicken-wire;

His one remaining arm extending out of the case

So that his hand can caress the stalk of a dandelion.

Jason waxes lyrical about its ephemeral sphere

That can be dispersed as easily as a cloud into the air

And I say, from now on you can do anything, Jason,

Argue for the King’s assassination, shit on the floor

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(I’m actually not so sure Jason does shitting any more).

No one is going to tell you what you are doing is crap,

They will do nothing but praise you. Not to do so would be

Anti-freakist. Next there is this girl who wants to perform

With a sheep, but the sheep’s no pet, and keeps wandering

Off the set. Clearly she was looking for a lamb. I get friendly

With the sheep which is dirty, but so what? Didn’t I

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Grow up on a farm? The sheep is content to be my pillow

As I dream about going back into performance for a spell,

Recalling all my actions with a pig. A Tamworth sow.

Am I dreaming about a sheep because wolves are supposed to make

An appearance again in this book? I dreamt I had mislaid

My old jacket after a fatal row with my old friend.

It’s all very well remembering them, but dreams are supposed

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To happen in one’s sleep. Should you recall

Such a detail, that detail from a dream can depress you

By leaving its dark trace through the hours of your day.

Better put all recollection away. But that gets you stuck on

Darktrace, cybersecurity company founded by the Brit tycoon

Mike Lynch – one of the six missing in the shipwreck

That occurred off Porticello, round the head from Palermo –

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Darktrace has consolidated relations with the deep state rabbis

Of Mossad. And Darktrace is known to secret services,

Including Italian ones, but has close relationships in particular

With Tel Aviv who, according to a source interviewed

By Nova Agency, used Darktrace’s systems to locate

Leaders of Hamas. Lynch, also known as the

“British Bill Gates”, played a role in the birth of Darktrace.

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From The Runiad, Book 12. The completed poem may by read for free on this Heyzine link.

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Book 12 can be found on page 272, so move along the bar below the text to get to any specific page.