The Poetry Meme

flatland fractal

2008-08-29T17:27:00.000+02:00

in a manifold of spaces
exists a multiplex of dimensions
a thought-visualised
occupies a hyperpoint in n-space
a scintillating node
in a coruscating fount
a stream of tags rich in meaning
yet meaningless:
for all its complexity
does not simplify
but complicates.

information flow
-- stuttering barrage of hyperclicks,
hypertags, hypertext --
increases possibility
but removes choice.

this is a crime:
all the quantum possibilities ever considered
reduced to a flatland fractal choice tree.

pay attention to your faith

2007-11-12T12:55:00.001+02:00

glowing face of the net
gleaming mandala of meaning
the aesthetically contextual information fractal
appears on my screen

spinning mouse wheel
prayer wheel of power
rhythm of the ebb and flow of attention
beatbox mouseclicks focus our thoughts
carry our instant-message prayers
to the Router Gods
sending silent supplications
requests for reinforcement
courting the comments of our fellow Faithful
demanding the demi-gods to wrangle the webstats
to send some fellow surfers to my fallow shrine
begging for alms
at the Temple Gate called Bountiful

can Sir spare some clicks for a leprous webmaster?

would Madam visit our sponsors so we can feed our children?

would the honourable priest please increase our pagerank?

Blogged with Flock

mythology I

2007-10-20T08:48:00.000+02:00

This poem was written for a redheaded girl I saw in a bookstore once, and to which I never spoke.

appearing from the sea of humanity
my liege rises
an elemental naiad
barefoot, surefooted, strong

inquisitive gaze alighting everywhere
flitting from word to book to man
surveilling her domain
unassumingly assuming lordship
of all she surveys

thighs and hips strong
slimly muscled body
beautiful in its power
to do whatever the naiad wills

face moulded from elemental innocence
freckled imperfection merely accentuating
skin of creamed silk
which is the naiad's guise among us

crowned head held proud
red-copper burnished crown a veil
obscuring swan's neck and
seashell-sculpted ears
falling to thin shoulders
red-copper crown
banner of authority
a standard where I rally
evermore proclaiming my allegiance and love.

Solitude

2007-10-18T14:47:00.000+02:00

solitude and silence
so rare these days
uninterrupted influx of irritainment
your life, digitised
damned and desecrated
constant corrupting confluence of consensus compositions
no thought your own
no idea your own
originality as agreement

never-ending binary barrage
the universe, digitised
digital
something either is or isn't
no space left for originality
the quantum states between one and zero
discounted, discarded
you are paying attention, or you aren't
you have what it takes, or you don't
you have achieved, or you haven't.

sugared, buttered, flavoured pap
digestible by the weakest stomach
soundbyte memes packaged in icons and leitmotif theme songs
replicate faster than human recognition
cross-mutate faster than human comprehension
dependant on being or not being
assimilating hosts
drawing their teeth
atrophying their stomachs
weakening their defenses from within
the deus ex humanitas shaping its flock in its own image

will we still be human
when we're pure information?
will you still be self-aware
when you're only interested
in replicating the latest virus?
will you have a sense of self left?

Will you ever think again?

Clap Hands and Sing

2007-10-12T10:23:00.000+02:00

on an industrious mall-day
you wander about in fashionable labels
the commercialists in corporate uniforms
provide non-service with a snarl.

the mall just drips with sex.
impersonal
competitive
exhibitionistic
shallow lonely SEX.

how strange we have become:
shopping as a breeding ritual.

intelligence and knowledge
adaptability and strength
only have meaning
in the economic sense.

and now
we sing and clap our hands
and dance
to the tune of the Paid Piper's penny-whistle.

we dance and clap our hands

we sing and clap our hands

i think
i will burn my caveman-fire
and scream my defiant rage
and lust after a world that never was.

i will hunt at will
and make my world meaningful
and strange
and beautiful
a naked boy shrilly screaming defiance.

i will make my own rhythm
whistling an ancient tune of lust
subtly gyrating stamping my feet
around a roaring fire
a naked boy becoming a man
according to tribal law.

how long can we keep civilisation away?
for how long can we put off
teaching our children
to clap their hands and sing?

kanji II

2007-10-11T13:23:00.000+02:00

frozen in digital snapshots
the kanji people move
etched in bas-reflief
embossed on the shop windows.

frozen tableaux at fifty hertz
spell out your mind
letter by letter, quantised
into stilted body-language kanji
flawed ideograms of the mind.

your walk through the mall
is a strung-out sentence,
a four-dimensional monologue
with no punctuation or pause for breath

the kanji people move
in sped-up time-lapse films
stop-bit animation makes them
seem life-like, unique
and yet all the same.

Merchant of Venice, the Franchise

2007-10-11T13:18:00.000+02:00

the commercial voice
droning massed chorus
all singing more money more money

beauty, intelligence,
skills, aptitudes
value calculated
weighed, measured
and God help you
if your manager finds you wanting

more money more money
they sigh as they schlep to work
more money more money
as they crawl into bed
always dreaming of
more money more money

I also dreamed of
more money more money
all the riches in the world
on a scale
and balancing, no, outweighing
more money more money:
a pound of human flesh.