Ramp
Ramp up - still
Under pavements
And concrete roofs,
Beams of lead,
Mortar, spaces open,
Ramps leading up,
Speed-bumps, graffiti
Straining under layers of
Stairwells, asbestos,
Cold, sickness, hunger,
Tears, bitter chill, hot
Blankets, sogging, filthy,
Ramps ascending through
Exhaust fumes and tar and
Blood and sweat and smoke and

The top.
Cold. Overlooking the vile city
In all its putrid splendor.
A dream swirls in the blackness,
Then dies.

Bright horizons rise up
Over the broad, soothing,
Pixelated mountains.
A parse in the code wakes
And shivers under the
Blazingly cold sun.

Drifting clouds, silvered with
Pixels, flowing like a
River of neon lights.
The data streams above,
Dreamy and nostalgic,
Like quiet afternoons

Inside, listening to the
Cool, pattering rain tap
Gently at the window.
Dark clouds outside, stirring
With a roll of thunder,
And a screen, the music

Chimes gently in your mind.
Hums, chords, thrums, and a quiet,
Beckoning warmth, waving
Back through the pixel clouds
Under the pixel sun.
The colours blend with

The sweet taste of cola.
Salty crisps, shaken, bagged
And popped open at lunch.
Fresh tuna sandwiches,
The click of a cassette tape.
Unwrapped magazines.

Old smells mingle on your
Cool tongue. Lavender oil,
Peppermints in Winter,
Strawberries and cream. You
Feel the pixels in your
Pockets, like loose change.

Those soft chimes return still
To the old windowsill
In the light breeze. Each leaf
Its own story, washed in
Streams of pixels, flowing
Timid through the sky.

A bird tweets. The dreams stir
And fade into the clouds.
Softly lit, glowing sun,
Bathed in warm nostalgia.
Nobody really goes
To Earth, anymore.

Cyber! Neon green, pinks,
Hair like vivid spotlights
At nightclubs, darting, sharp,
Strong-willed and persistent,
Piercing through the pale skin
Laid thinly over fog.

Shock-shock! If anarchy
Is popular, what does
It mean to rebel? Rave
Lights beam through the system
Like tracer rounds! The punks
Spin like halogen bulbs.

Steel! Plenty of plastic.
Enough to rebuild the
Eccentric walls of their
Flashy nightclubs. Above,
Sophisticated chains
Spin and drag over meat;

Pointless. A simple sort
Of mechanisation.
The music, the plastic,
The hair dye; all of it
Spits to the contrary,
Such anarchists are they.

Fire stirs gently
In the depths of my chest.
Hot rocks, rolling
The molten stones down to

My stomach. The
Ache is quelled, substitute
To flame. Piping
Cold nectar, as gold,

Drawing only the
Boldest flames, dragon-like,
From my throat, my eyes,
My thoughts,

Invoked. Strong,
Stirring-gold, brazing,
Golden flames. Quell
The pains of my

Productivity.
Sooth the raw burns
Of my purpose,
Or lack thereof.

A pale green Siren
With fair skin, and the distant
Aroma of coffee beans...

Behind her, a broad,
White-bearded old man
Grinning, stares through my head...

And above, the dull hum
Of an apple, a single bite missing,
Penetrates me with its glare...

My eyes sting with tears.

It's almost like they need
To force us to be human.