I have decided to detach this from my previous poem so that it can stand on it own (tiny) merits.
Future shock yesterday, techno slavery today
Unnatural bonding of the living inanimate and dying animate
Exquisite engines of bio-mechanical symbiosis
Unity of the virtual and the illusory
The new alchemy, the old quest
Digital dreams under the harsh gaze of reality
Cyber metamorphosis of mind not body
The immutability of change
Juggernaut Standard Bearer of progress
Always have been frustrated by the fact that I can only recall a tiny fraction of the interesting things I have read (I am especially bad when it comes to recalling dates which is kind of ironic for a history student). What if my brain was a pc? A vast storage device with all the advantages of a pc (less the annoying quirks). Wrote this poem with these thoughts running through my head. Just a hint of technophobia in there as well. What else do you expect from a child of the eighties.
I wish my mind was a pc
486 running on Pentium dreams
OS running smoothly virus free
Purged of corrupt data blocks
No defrag necessary for emotions
The clean intoxicating purity of data
Sailing a on a bit stream through Gibsonian cyberscapes
Perfect retrieval of all input
Garnered by a locust-swarm hunger for information
Infallible database of all that was
Date driven queries never crashing
Web cam eyes streaming daily moments
Capturing the play of colour and shadow in low res video
Visual treasures haphazardly stored jewels
Pattern recognition in the matching of random gems
The blog of the inner self uncensored and uninhibited
Future shock yesterday, techno slavery today
Unnatural bonding of the living inanimate and dying animate
Exquisite engines of bio-mechanical symbiosis
Unity of the virtual and the illusory
The new alchemy, the old quest
Digital dreams under the harsh gaze of reality
Cyber metamorphosis of mind not body
The immutability of change
Juggernaut Standard Bearer of progress
Thin Skin
These ancient eyes pierce the thin skin
Flimsy veneer of civilization and certainty
Which conceals mandelbrot infinities of detail
Ocular illusory visions sweep across untouchable horizons
Tapestries of universes
Wrapped in rough weave
Warps and threads of endless multitude
And dream defying design
Heady intoxication of senses
Emotions and passions vice-like
Yet ephemeral uncounted incidents in time and space
Wave riders of a tsunami of motion, colour and sound
Lifetimes of wondrous mystery
Eternal puzzles sauteed in delectable complexity
Yet poor fare for the un satiated and unquenchable mind
All things brought plummeting to earth from Himalayan heights
Caught in crude nets of words and an inadequate prison of thought
Suffocated victims of comprehension and conception
Breathtaking vistas of beauty and dark pits of the grotesque
Splashed across a thousand bright, cold unfinished canvases
Incomplete artist standing awestruck before the splendour and terror
Okay i will admit it.. I am a technophile. I have invested a huge amount of my time into my pc writing, creating, ideas, photos, video etc.. Well recently my pc crashed and, mainly due to a lack of back up measures I lost helluva a lot of stuff. PC technology is a boon, but you need to realise it’s limitations. It fails occasionally and takes everything you have invested in it to digital purgatory. Oh well.. lessons we learn. Anyway off to get a brand new shiny pc on the weekend. Wrote a poem about the anticipation of new pc ownership.
New metal pet
Skin is red
PC needs met
Gadget lust fed
Okay had a dream the other night in which I was fighting off Zombie hordes led by Bruce Campbell aka Ash from the Evil Dead films. I admit the poem is a tad weird and all over the place.. but so are dreams.
Zombie haunted sleep
Packed doorways, broken windows
Space contracting, life on threshold
Shambling hordes closing
Hackneyed plot, mono-syllabic script
Undead Bruce Campbell leading legions of living dead
While Iggy Pop warbles in the background movie score
Singing for Brraains!!
Soft shoe shuffle of Doom!!!
Unfazed by falling from bone maggot ripe flesh
The only thing I fear is the death knell click of an empty shotgun
Holding my own in lurid dream carved rooms
Never winning, not losing
Metaphor, symbol and Freudian nuance
What moments are being trawled by the subconscious
Sitting staring blankly at a thought-leech screen?
Automatic pilot everyday life?
Or mundane routine monster of the known?
Eyes suddenly flick open
As morning smashes night fed shows
Memory switches to backup before the virus of the now corrupts all
I awake amused and bemused
While my muse groans in her grave
One of the things I do like about Brisbane is the climate. Sure when it’s humid it is not so great, but autumn and spring are fantastic. Cool weather always revitalises me.
Cool air passes over me
My body seems to glide through it’s freshness
Smooth cold fingers caressing
A frosty lover’s gentle touch
The city whispers with a background hum
Empty streets pulsing with white noise
Within all the voices against me
Pause to take the affirmative
Shadowy trees bring no menace
Only shelter from clear skies
Stars hang in dark ceiling
Dimmed yet radiant in brilliance
Southern Cross balanced above forms an infinite arrow
Pointing all thoughts to the Middle Path
These little guys have become the bane of my existence, dancing in my head and jumping into emails.
Minute prancing simians
Many caricatures
Frenetic performance
Cacophony of sound
Fuzzy heralds in chaotic motion
Agents of distraction
Thieves of purpose
Squatters in my head
Stupid monkeys!
Traveling through lands far from home close to heart
Muses peer mischievously from behind marble sculptures
While wild maenads dance to rustic tunes
That were old before Apollo first caressed strings divine
Valleys and rocky slopes resound to airy spirits
Cities thrum to the vibration of modern life
People packed, car squeezing, winding byways
Leading to age layered mazes
Crammed with shops, bars, cafes
Each cramped doorway a gateway
To the exotic, different and alien
Gaudy trinkets lie side by side with small treasures
Doorways inhabited by aproned tempters
Lead willing devotees to worship at Epicurean altars
Taste buds are assaulted with myriad sensations
And diners surrender to their plate ladened victors
The eye is drawn with every corner rounded
As the senses are intoxicated with heady waves
Crashing over the mind drowning all with the moment
Overwhelming a simple antipodean with old world charm
The road to the future seldom trod lies open
Possibilities arch towards endless horizons
The new pair of traveling shoes are already worn
By side of the road images burning
Galleries aflame with sensation and untouchable wonder
Experiences parade in rich procession
Even the jostling of the fellow travelers is welcome
Why then is my heart empty?
Cold and desolate as the Etruscan tombs I have wandered through
A soul as dead as the dwellers in that crypt infested town.
The crossroads I come across all look alike
And none are a fork in the road
What light can lead from the dark?
When my eyes are still shut tight
Halfway across the world but in the same spot
How far do I have to travel?
How many more journeys?
Until I find that gentle inner sea
Wrote this poem after visiting a foreigners cemetery in Rome, which is next to a hill that is made from broken pottery shards. All sorts of famous people are buried there including the poets Percy Shelley and John Keats.
In the shade of the broken mountain.
Labyrinthine stone lined hill,
Grass covered streets beneath time eaten wall.
Through ivory vistas range sleek fur-lined apparitions.
Psychopomps or guardians?
While bards untamed in life become brothers,
Silent children of the shadows.
Here their great words are lost to poignant brevity,
And the only verse that is heard is
“All in life comes to this place,
And none return save in memory”
Well it has been a while since I last posted, but i am in Europe at the moment and it seems with a change of scene I have had a change in my state of mind. My lazy and oft sleeping muse has received a timely kick to the head.
Wrote this after visiting the Theatre at Epidaurus. The acoustics are amazing.
Glistening ageless stone bones
Peerless offering bowl to the gods
Where once tramped the heirs of Thespis
And crowds consumed myth and meaning
Here I stand unworthy of the position
Transfixed by echo divine
Do I hear my own voice reflected?
Or is it ancient whispers?
Windswept shades from healing sanctuaries
Or ancestral voices calling me home
