steriojoe2025 featuring AI Gemini

I had a date with a poem
Remembering is the art
Every word came from beauty
“Oh! Ho no go away”scratched the witch
Came from somewhere
Landing everywhere
On a time clock known as lost
SOS came to call
All who got away
Found wanting the truth of crime
Was that you
Squeezing past the in-between
Bold as Brass
Pointing the finger of that perfect ecology
Mr FlabbyMind.

Poem by @steriojoe

Write a flamboyant interpretation.

This is a delicious, jagged piece of work. The juxtaposition between your text and that high-contrast, black-and-white image creates a friction that is both uncomfortable and mesmerizing. Here is a flamboyant dive into the “Vulgarity of Normalcy.”
The Visual Paradox: The Bow on the Rocks
The image is a masterclass in aggressive innocence. We see a pristine, ribbed hair bow—a symbol of girlhood, grooming, and the “neatness” society demands—tossed violently against a bed of cold, unforgiving volcanic rock.
The Textures: The soft, repetitive weave of the ribbon screams “Normalcy,” while the jagged, porous stones represent the “Vulgarity” of the raw earth.
The Black & White Lens: By stripping away color, you’ve removed the “cuteness” of the bow. It becomes a skeletal artifact. It looks less like a fashion accessory and more like a discarded bandage or a strange, synthetic butterfly pinned to a grave of gravel.
The Poetic Anatomy: A Date with the Grotesque
The Romantic Decay
“I had a date with a poem / Remembering is the art”
You begin with a flirtation with the past. But this isn’t a nostalgic stroll; it’s a confrontation. You frame “remembering” not as a passive act, but as a deliberate Art, suggesting that memory is something we shape, color, and perhaps distort to survive.
The Witch and the Clock
““Oh! Ho no go away” scratched the witch”
The sudden intrusion of the “witch” breaks the beauty. This is the Vulgarity breaking through the Normalcy. The witch represents the unfiltered, the ugly, and the ancient. She scratches at the “time clock known as lost,” reminding us that time isn’t a linear progress—it’s a chaotic landing strip where “SOS” calls go unanswered.
The Trial of the “Perfect Ecology”
“Found wanting the truth of crime / Was that you / Squeezing past the in-between”
The poem shifts into a courtroom of the soul. You are calling out a ghost—someone “Bold as Brass” who navigates the gray areas (“the in-between”) with an infuriating confidence. This figure points a finger at a “perfect ecology,” which feels like a biting sarcasm for a world that pretends to be balanced and green while being built on the “truth of crime.”
The Final Insult: Mr. Flabby Mind
“Mr Flabby Mind.”
What a spectacular closing sting! It is the ultimate indictment of the mediocre. “Mr. Flabby Mind” is the personification of Normalcy—soft, uncritical, intellectually lazy, and comfortably numb. He stands in stark contrast to the “scratched” reality of the witch and the “crimes” of the past. He is the person who sees a bow on the rocks and just sees a lost item, missing the existential scream entirely.
The Synthesis
Your work suggests that Normalcy is a lie we tell ourselves to hide the jagged rocks of existence. The bow (Normalcy) is fragile and synthetic; the rocks (Reality/Vulgarity) are permanent and crushing. To live with a “Flabby Mind” is to ignore the SOS, but to be an artist is to “scratch” at the surface until the truth—however criminal—is revealed.

Create an image.

Mr Flabby Mind

Beneath a sky of static and ash,
the red-veined ghost of a girl
clutches a clock like a dying sun.
Time is no longer a river;
it is a crack in the glass,
a series of numbers ticking toward
the absolute center of nothing.
In the gravel bed of the ordinary,
a white bow sits—
stark, pleated, and perfectly tied.
It is the anchor of the mundane,
the crushing weight of being “fine”
while the lightning in your veins
screams for a different shape.
The air tastes of grit and neon.
To be normal is to be still,
to let the rocks settle over your feet
until you are part of the ground,
neatly packaged,
while the mind drips away like pink wax
under the heat of a lost hour.
Poem by @steriojoe AI-ing

Mr Flabby Mind interpretation.

This is a delicious, jagged piece of work. The juxtaposition between your text and that high-contrast, black-and-white image creates a friction that is both uncomfortable and mesmerizing. Here is a flamboyant dive into the “Vulgarity of Normalcy.”

​The Visual Paradox: The Bow on the Rocks

​The image is a masterclass in aggressive innocence. We see a pristine, ribbed hair bow—a symbol of girlhood, grooming, and the “neatness” society demands—tossed violently against a bed of cold, unforgiving volcanic rock.

• ​The Textures: The soft, repetitive weave of the ribbon screams “Normalcy,” while the jagged, porous stones represent the “Vulgarity” of the raw earth.
• ​The Black & White Lens: By stripping away color, you’ve removed the “cuteness” of the bow. It becomes a skeletal artifact. It looks less like a fashion accessory and more like a discarded bandage or a strange, synthetic butterfly pinned to a grave of gravel.

​The Poetic Anatomy: A Date with the Grotesque

​The Romantic Decay

​“I had a date with a poem / Remembering is the art”

​You begin with a flirtation with the past. But this isn’t a nostalgic stroll; it’s a confrontation. You frame “remembering” not as a passive act, but as a deliberate Art, suggesting that memory is something we shape, color, and perhaps distort to survive.

​The Witch and the Clock

​““Oh! Ho no go away” scratched the witch”

​The sudden intrusion of the “witch” breaks the beauty. This is the Vulgarity breaking through the Normalcy. The witch represents the unfiltered, the ugly, and the ancient. She scratches at the “time clock known as lost,” reminding us that time isn’t a linear progress—it’s a chaotic landing strip where “SOS” calls go unanswered.

​The Trial of the “Perfect Ecology”

​“Found wanting the truth of crime / Was that you / Squeezing past the in-between”

​The poem shifts into a courtroom of the soul. You are calling out a ghost—someone “Bold as Brass” who navigates the gray areas (“the in-between”) with an infuriating confidence. This figure points a finger at a “perfect ecology,” which feels like a biting sarcasm for a world that pretends to be balanced and green while being built on the “truth of crime.”

​The Final Insult: Mr. Flabby Mind

​“Mr Flabby Mind.”

​What a spectacular closing sting! It is the ultimate indictment of the mediocre. “Mr. Flabby Mind” is the personification of Normalcy—soft, uncritical, intellectually lazy, and comfortably numb. He stands in stark contrast to the “scratched” reality of the witch and the “crimes” of the past. He is the person who sees a bow on the rocks and just sees a lost item, missing the existential scream entirely.

​The Synthesis

Your work suggests that Normalcy is a lie we tell ourselves to hide the jagged rocks of existence. The bow (Normalcy) is fragile and synthetic; the rocks (Reality/Vulgarity) are permanent and crushing. To live with a “Flabby Mind” is to ignore the SOS, but to be an artist is to “scratch” at the surface until the truth—however criminal—is revealed.

Short story by @steriojoe

Mr Flabby Mind.

The air in the back of the bus station was always thick with the scent of stale coffee and unspoken regrets. Elias, or rather, Mr. Flabby Mind as his worn notebook declared him, traced the neon outline of a girl on a discarded album cover. She pulsed with a frantic energy, mirroring the clock face she clutched, a fiery halo against a backdrop of bleak, unyielding gravel.

​He understood that girl. He understood the feeling of time slipping through fingers like grains of sand, leaving behind only the grit of what was lost. His own life felt like that gravel bed—a collection of small, sharp disappointments, each one distinct but ultimately blending into a uniform grey. The neat white bow, pristine and out of place in the image, was his nemesis. It was the forced smile, the polite nod, the endless loop of “How are you?” and “I’m fine, thank you.” The vulgarity of normalcy, indeed.

​Elias had been a promising student once, a painter of vibrant, chaotic dreams. But the world, with its insatiable hunger for the predictable, had slowly drained the color from his palette. His professors called his art “too abstract,” his ideas “unmarketable.” His family, well-meaning but suffocating, urged him towards “something stable.” So he’d traded his brushes for a cubicle, his canvases for spreadsheets.

​Now, his mind, once a tempest of creativity, felt like a deflated balloon, barely tethered to reality. He’d scribble poems in his notebook during lunch breaks, lines about the indignity of a clock’s relentless march, the silent scream of a soul trapped in a sensible suit. He dreamt of that girl in the image, her wild hair crackling with forgotten potential, her eyes burning with defiance. Sometimes, he imagined reaching out, pulling her from the album cover, letting her red energy ignite his own dull existence.

But then the clock on the bus station wall would tick, loud and unforgiving, and the fantasy would dissolve. He’d gather his things, his notebook hidden beneath a practical, uninteresting novel, and walk back into the grey, another day swallowed by the insistent, polite tyranny of being just… fine. The bow was always there, metaphorical and crushing, holding everything in place, preventing the glorious explosion of red light he so desperately craved.

steriojoe2025.blog @steriojoe