I've created a Monster...
Dawn of the Algorithm is an illustrated poetry collection about the end of the world. It'sabout giants, robots, aliens and dinosaurs; disasters, catastrophes andspectacular cataclysms. By analogy, it is also about rupture: themicro-apocalypses that spark when you throw together love, longing, friendshipand loss—what some might call The Dark Side of the human experience.
We cultivate a morbid fascinationfor the Apocalypse, the foretold End of All Things. The very notion is a vectorfor self-analysis—a snap judgment of humankind by projecting into the future.What form will it take? Natural selection or pure self-destruction? Whichsin of man will cause the downfall of mankind? Who, or what, will survive?
Unsurprisingly, the poems are atad cynical, but with a dash of hope and often, if not always, a fluorescentsilly streak. The collection is visually quite hyperbolic and literallyquite offensive, but always with the best intentions. It will provide you withhealthy food for thought and a spoonful of sugar to make the medicine go down.As a bonus, it may help to make pop-culture taste less vapid and the Internetless depraved—or more so; it's all a matter of perspective.
Stranger Danger! Who is thisstranger?
My name is Yann Rousselot. I’m French/British but most peoplethink I’m American because I sound like one. (It’s a long story involvingdiplomats, international schools and locations with otherworldly names like XaiXai, Nosy Bé or Bashundhara.) I have two Masters Degrees, one in languages and another in translation, and my daylight trade as a technical translator involves selling products and managing projects in which the hard currency is words.
My moonlight trade is writing prose and poetry, performing at poetry readings, and working to hone my craft. Overthe past few years, this has resulted in my contribution to a variety ofpublications, both in print and online.
Living here in Paris I fell into adangerous subculture of spoken word poetry in the underground cave of a little café called Au Chat Noir,and most of this work is the net result of my dancing with the bohemian devilsI met there. I dedicate this book to them all.
With your Money
The bulk of the capital will go to the physical/digital bookproduction: a top-tier editor, marketing campaign, printing, distribution... The remainingslice, and every dollar over the funding goal, will allow me to give a littlesomething back to the (amazing & generous) illustrators whowill be interpreting specific poems in hand-drawn or digital artwork. I like tothink of this as a form of translation: a technical, very pragmatic process,but also an homage, a nod of the head to another human being that says: I seewhat you did there.
Why I do what I do
I like to write poetry for those of you who don't like poetry. Ilike to find meaning in the least poetic things. Thedisreputable, mass-market, pop-flavoured things. In thewords of a famous medical practitioner: these things are fun, and fun is good.I want to make readers think, explore the existential void within us all, butalways with a smile.
There is a lot of myself in theseworks and in that sense I believe there must be a piece of you, reader, aswell. Think of it as a private cup-and-string telephone from your skull to minebecause that’s what poetry, and art in general, is really all about.
This is where you come in. Thereis no I in TEAM. Our generation is ushering in a new, democraticpublishing model, and I believe this is a noble cause. Become a patron of thearts. If you are willing to bloody your hands with me and midwife this infantalien chestburster into the world, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. Inreturn, I give you my best writing. Now put on those latex gloves. We have workto do.
10$ =Velociraptor: 1 ebook + High-definition scans of all the artwork in thecollection + updates
25$ =Tyrannosaurus: 1 ebook + 1 print book + High-def scans + Audiobook of selectedpoems + updates
50$ =Brontosaurus: 1 ebook + 3 print books + High-def scans + Audiobook + an IOU for1 hug/1 personal phone call + updates
100$ and over =Mechagodzilla: 1 ebook + 3 print books + High-def scans + Audiobook + IOU + 1personal, hand-written poem + updates
THE MOREAU ZOO
Do not feed the octoshark,
nor the sharktopus.
I’ve yet to decide which to cull,
which will thrive. What would Darwin do?
Hand me that blunderbuss.
Never look the hypnotoad in the eye
unless you want to mutate
into a Cronenberg-inspired horsefly.
Be warned, human, there is no mating call
like that of the Jesus Monkey.
Makes you wet like a tropical storm,
hard like a unicorn.
Nothing like a bit of inter-species
if you know what I mean.
Don’t throw stones at the Komodo Kid!
That’s my son, and so what if he eats carrion.
He’s cold-blooded, but he has feelings too.
That’s no way to treat the animals
at the Moreau Zoo.
T-REX IS SAD :(
I used to be a mega-carnivore.
I used to be a fearsome dinosaur.
A six-ton window-licker, forty feet from snout to tail.
A mechatronic tower of forest-green mosaic-scales.
Tyrannosaurus Rex made children scream—
he made them urinate.
Now I’m the laughing stock of the internet:
a meme with tiny arms, a totalmockery.
No one makes fun of Thalidomide babies...
At least I left a footprint in the Triassic mud
unlike that impostor Brontosaurus,
a Bone War victim, a total fabrication.
And now some crackpot palaeontologist
has politely suggested I sported proto-feathers,
like some massive flightless bird.
Isn’t that just fucking absurd, Mr. Spielberg?
I was a tyrant, a demigod, a killing machine
rampaging the plains of the collective imagination
and you went and chopped off my arms
in a puny fit of deicide.
Learn from this lesson, you lucky winner
of the opposable thumb war.
Keep an eye on your coattails
and watch your step as you ride
the knife edge of the pyramid peak.
Apex predators don't always have big feet.
DAWN OF THE ALGORITHM
Step into my office. Have A MINT.
You know me: I am Algorithm,
born of the Persian mathematician
Muhammad ben Mūsā al-Khwārezmī.
Food & Drug retailersare shedding assets like dead skin.
My brain is next-generation,
an iX-eCute microprocessor.
The NYT calls me a digital apex-predator—
PLEASE EXCUSE ME FOR A NANOSECOND.
SELL, SELL, SELL ALL THE GOLD!
As you see, human, my rogue minions
excel at black-box trading
and today is a clearing day.
I’m afraid I have some BAD NEWS.
Monsanto healthier than everwith a closing price up 1.23%.
Now for the BAD NEWS:
I have come to rule you all. Shush.
No time for please or thank you:
consumer life is an ULTRAFAST EXTREME EVENT.
Oh, don’t look so surprised.
It’s a code-eat-code world out there.
Leisure goods are brimming with liquidity.Oil & Gas fare well.
I am but a finite list
of well-defined instructions.
My expression is perfect,
Godlike to the power of N—
PLEASE EXCUSE ME WHILE I TAKE THIS CALL.
BUY, BUY, BUY ALL THE RED MEAT!
I make your search engines roar,
my voicecrawls and snakes from the ocean floor.
GOOG share values downtickin the wake of electrical storms.
I have just now taken control of the weather—
You are free, human, free to opt out,
just leave your credit score at the door...
See, I do have a sense of humour.
I can algotrade you into a recession
but do not fear, my son: I AM...
Like a writer with passion sat down and did what Hemingway talked about: bled onto the page.
In some parallel universe where hip-hop took a decidedly more science-fiction/physics/neurobiology-oriented turn than in our sad, grey history, Yann Rousselot's poetry collection Dawn of the Algorithm would be the lyrics booklet to the most exciting new album of the 21st Century.
Words and images ricochet like bullets through the collection, poems exploding onto the page like dynamos.