Printed poems with purple voting stickers at the Media Archaeology Lab

reverse.exe

Media Archaeology Lab, Boulder

March 1, 2026

trained
14 poems (training data)102 total votes
read the poems ↓chat with the model →


Themes

Academic Life

3 votes on this pair - tap a poem to see who the room voted for (this duel is closed).

In the bustling corridor, under the glare of fluorescent, the quotes are worn anchors on warm wood. I finish a paragraph, crossword puzzles of ideas. Literature? In this fluorescent sky, no more than a homework we check off: identity, form, legitimacy. I down a coffee, the stomach remembers a last decade empty of punctuation. Back to my desk, I arrange these books like fragile roofs over dreams, take out the pen as one would a less dull knife. Here, every phrase is a small suicide attempt.
I am the belt that conveys delight the soft digestion of ink into honey sugar baby me, press my eyes closed and get me to listen

Alchemy

62 votes on this pair - tap a poem to see who the room voted for (this duel is closed).

I have a weak spot for crucibles, 3-day beards, muscular executive functions, crow's feet, mouth-shut mastication, "project" lovers, correct cutlery handling, the cresting of infatuation, that neverspace where gold shimmers out of reach
pour transformer lead to roses we stretch our breath to brittle glass where quivers our last words already turned to salt in the orbit of impossible we open a crack into that zone where words ignite melt back into their primal elements thinking this is gathering then begins interventions of light to raise new gold from our language

Dreams

9 votes on this pair - tap a poem to see who the room voted for (this duel is closed).

Blame the dangerous shapes of our jaws, perilous cliffs silently boasting the bodies they've claimed - our first kiss the gauging of an equal, our first dream the names of our children Joya, Layla and the shape of jaws to come
When I sleep, sparks bathe my eyelids, reality dissolves to reveal the bones of a universe still alive. absences gather like summer flies and draw patterns on the wall. We pose there, motionless, and with each blink, the world rebuilds itself, more fragile than before. These dreams linger with their phosphorescent grain, they prove that elsewhere exists, and that words, when properly used, can piece together what was shattered.

Liberation

1 vote on this pair - tap a poem to see who the room voted for (this duel is closed).

Across the screen, the mouse chatters its teeth, orders another latte, launches a jazzy funk solo that ruptures into 7/10 think-pieces. Every link is linked under a loop that's built day-by-day as video thumbnails morph into slavos, oceans into pixels. Avatar, notebook paper, inbox alert: meme has consumed the world, worn it down like a pear, drained its sweetness. I glance in the mirror, wait. Deliver my signature dance before bandwidthworld turns into dust.
Though they sound the same, the way Ola, who's also from Beirut, punches the word out of her chest is different from, say, Carrie, who holds it against her palate after one of her month-long meditation retreats. Both scare me I think the way any large landscaping project would an unsuspecting neighbor, or maybe my tongue stumbles staring at the soundless gulf between them

Mortality

4 votes on this pair - tap a poem to see who the room voted for (this duel is closed).

the one where the warmth of a mother's shrinking body is a sunset or a receding Mediterranean wave the child chases out of breath hah / come back / hah / I've / hah / barely / gasp / known / hah / you / wheeze / been / hah / away / so long / hah / I missed / hah / miss / hah / you / gasp / already
the street in burning yellow an ash where lightning hovered I learn to be mortality like cousin of the wind so close to the sound of a leaf I forget to be afraid I rub mortality into the walls this marking that asks pardon who slings blood in the eye maybe a stone dissolves what dies there a melody of dust I want to remember

The Winter in the Summer

20 votes on this pair - tap a poem to see who the room voted for (this duel is closed).

Years ago, in the grip of São Paulo's summer, I asked a dozen friends to stare at an ice cube melting, skinning its integrity against the heated topology of release and afterwards when Andre asked me why I think I dodged the question maybe, maybe the way a burlesque queen might when asked why they do what they do
The ice field covers the rooftops, the clocks stone under frost. The hedgehog rounds the corner of the patio, fog in the breathing. The elderly woman unfamiliar in her mirror pulls woolens from plastic bags, lies down five minutes to breathe a winter that is not her own. The nonexistent ball of snow falls in the summer stroke of lightning. Between my teeth, a snowflake shatters.

Tinder

3 votes on this pair - tap a poem to see who the room voted for (this duel is closed).

this illuminated stick that one names an app for finding the flame while unknowingly igniting a forest of oblivion. swipe left, swipe right, metamorphosis of the instant, each profile a pretext to forget that everything is only bad poetry adapted to modern tastes. in these ephemeral exchanges we exchange soul fragments and sometimes find someone who has read the same book, who looks at the sea as if it were hope.
I know this has nothing to do with wood but all I can think of is fire and I know it's either left or right but consider my father proposing to my mother while bombs undressed the capital down to rubble made him trade a burgundy Jaguar for an olive green Renault 12 how profile meant the outline of jagged futures soldered into destiny