two untitled poems

Aryan Kaganof

Together, these poems construct a poetics of broken circuitry. They foreground the instability of language in the digital era, revealing how the human voice becomes both archive and error. Meaning is no longer the goal; instead, the process of breakdown—of losing semantic coherence—becomes the generative site of posthuman creativity. In these untitled poems, syntax behaves like a living system infected by code: self-replicating, mutating, endlessly reorganizing its own debris. The human emerges as a glitch within this ecology—a temporary coherence in the static of collapsing language. This is not the death of meaning but its metamorphosis into noise. If the post glitch economy trades in fragments, interruptions, and failures, then these poems are its purest currency: transmissions from the ruins of sense, where words still spark, even as they decay.

up mo-

dem trash the of the of human crea-

ture infectious repli-

cant scanner to chromo-

somal anthropoid

Just then the driver came in

“Are you bleeding?”

Derek swallowed. “I guess so.”

She didn’t mind so much as she had expected

his hard-

ened. thought, She face cadence.

it, through the went blind

town He the the come fingers.

his hard earth cool and on brush sheets

We were having a hell of a time

I had succeeded in dragging us both down together

‘I hope you weren’t put out.”

You must not speak for a week said,

old fruit-rees anxious barnyard taxes.”

been are inhabi-

tants indus-

try an cloth, peasants foreign said

hair. string hand-

embroidered, She spec-

tacled,

He opened his mouth to speak again, but,

after a moment, she thought that this was

not entirely accurate and, crossing out the

question of con-

tempt, and our reaction to it 

“What’s platonic?” she asked and I told her

He opened his mouth to speak, but the following

day he’d see him and the words would just tumble

out of his mouth: “It’s the smoke, the noise,

so much talk...” He could not find the words

to express himself, after a moment she thought

that this was not entirely accurate and, crossing

out the question of contempt, and our reaction

“This is not the baby!” she exclaimed, in startled tones

Every-

thing was incongruous