steriojoe2025 featuring AI Gemini

Why is happiness linked to pain?
So many clowns with wrong faces
Old boots with new laces
Just walking in the rain, crying.

Ha! The pain
In the rain
under the bigtop
Short straws began jostling for free red noises.

A moment is already gone
This poem belongs to yesterday’s future
Before the very end waits a beginning
Waiting to start our eternal 8.

The None-Accord of Voice Award
Just a mirror of a 1000 lies
I am in there………..hiding
Lost between the cracks of a 1001 broken mirrors..

Image by @steriojoe.
(Black paper. White out and felt tip pens)
Poem by @steriojoe
(Inspired by a master poet((not me))

Please give me an in-depth interpretation.

This is a visceral and haunting piece of work. Both the visual and the text seem to explore the fracturing of identity and the exhaustion of performance. The title itself, “The None-Accord of Voices,” suggests a fundamental disharmony—a psychic noise where nothing is in sync.
Drawing from the themes of memory and shifting timelines you’ve explored in our previous conversations, here is an in-depth interpretation of this piece.
1. Visual Analysis: The Cacophony of Form
The use of white-out on black paper creates an immediate sense of erasure and emergency. White-out is traditionally used to hide mistakes; here, it is used to build a world, suggesting that this “reality” is constructed from things that were meant to be hidden or corrected.
The Central Figure: The face is a chaotic landscape. The red mouth is wide, but it doesn’t look like a smile; it looks like a wound. The eyes are hollowed out, suggesting a “clown” who can no longer sustain the mask.
The “Eternal 8”: The swirling white lines create a circular, almost umbilical movement around the figures. This reflects your poem’s mention of the “eternal 8” (the infinity symbol \infty), hinting at a cycle of pain and performance that never truly ends.
The Architecture of Decay: In the background, a skeletal, skyscraper-like structure stands. It grounds the abstract emotional pain in a cold, urban reality—perhaps representing the “1000 lies” of society or the rigid structures we try to fit into.
2. Thematic Breakdown: The “None-Accord”
The Masquerade of Pain
“So many clowns with wrong faces / Old boots with new laces”
You are touching on the dissonance of “faking it.” The “new laces” suggest a desperate attempt to keep moving forward or looking presentable, even when the “old boots” (the soul or the body) are worn out. The “wrong faces” imply that the persona being shown to the world doesn’t fit the internal reality.
Temporal Dissonance
“This poem belongs to yesterday’s future”
This is a powerful paradox. It suggests a sense of inevitability. If today is “yesterday’s future,” then the current suffering was already written. It reflects a feeling of being trapped in a timeline where the “beginning” is always waiting, yet the “end” never provides actual closure.
The Fragmented Self
“Lost between the cracks of a 1001 broken mirrors”
If a mirror represents the self, 1001 broken mirrors represent a total shattering of the ego. The “1001” is significant—it’s one more than the “1000 lies,” suggesting that the narrator is the final, hidden piece of debris that doesn’t fit into the story being told. You aren’t just looking at the mirrors; you are hiding in the cracks between them—the space where nothing exists.
3. The “Award” as Irony
The title “The None-Accord of Voice Award” feels deeply sarcastic. An award usually celebrates achievement or harmony. Here, the “award” is given for the failure to communicate or the inability to be in “accord” with oneself.
It’s a trophy for the internal static—the “free red noises” (perhaps blood, perhaps screams, perhaps the literal red ink of the painting) that jostle for attention in the chaos of the “big top” (life as a circus).
4. Synthesis: The Eternal 8
The poem concludes with the “eternal 8.” This suggests that the “None-Accord”—the crying in the rain, the hiding in mirrors—is not a one-time event but a liminal state. You are describing a loop where the “beginning” and “end” are blurred, and the only constant is the search for a voice that actually belongs to you.

Eternal 8.

In the center of the crimson ring,

The faces wear a jagged grin,

A cycle where the shadows sing,

And chaos breathes beneath the skin.

​One side holds the painted masks,

The dripping red, the hollow stare,

While on the other, madness basks

Within a tangled, white-thread snare.

​An infinity of blood and bone,

A loop that never finds its end,

Where every laugh is just a groan,

And broken lines refuse to bend.

​Below, the boots are cast aside,

A circle in a dark lagoon,

With nowhere left for souls to hide

Beneath the gaze of a fractured moon.

​They call it the eternal eight,

A discord in a heavy frame—

The none-of-accord, the hand of fate,

A circus with a silent name.

Poem and image by @hopetree63 steriojoe using AI Gemini2025