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Paul Butters Sep 2011
Where are you Paul?
I'm in Cyberspace Mum.
My Pentium processor has broadbanded me
Into this wondrous realm.
A pixel powered virtual landscape
Peopled by avatars
Speaking Internet Slang.
FFS, *** are you talking about?
She asks.
In so many words.
I **** and ROFL at her incredulity.

It’s full of danger, that Internet, says Mum.
That’s true.
It’s full of paedophiles,
Spammers and trolls.
Hackers.
Chat-rooms and forums
Plagued by flame-wars
And spam enough to fill a trillion tins.
Sites full of viruses, Trojans, malware and spyware.
Cyber-bullies and loons abound.
But I just Love it.
A ****** addiction
Needing every fix.
A realm indeed of quantum singularities,
And imploding nebulae.

Paul Butters

(C) PB 3\9\2011 in Yorkshire.
DJ Goodwin Jul 2012
You smile black-eyed as
the city belches blue neon
through its steel-glass canyons;
a cobalt factory of lumen, pulsing
through dendritic labyrinths
of sapphired circuitry.

Diodes of cerulean fire,
spreading with virulent sophistry
amid the glittering obsidian dark,
like pale horses of light that
leap from pane to inky pane,
like a Pentium’s ******;
God’s own seething fireworks
watched in reverse
as they float in through my car window,
strobing blue against your freshly
washed hair.
copyright 2012, David J. Goodwin
Jun 25, 2012
Ken Pepiton Sep 2021
As told. As most stories come from some source,
we remember being the cause, or reason or why fact
or factor, thing, perhaps, event…

Many attempts to tell whole stories fail to find source
material, to begin with.
We are the source. Words with intention, stretched
from first utterance, fit to drum and dance and memor-ish,
been in form as first known functions, go do

Listen to the Anchor podcasts from beginnings in August 2018

I am surprised.
….
eight as an infinite loop, not a stack of circles… that

sorted red-bird readers from blue-bird readers in first grade…

Taking life at it's best, raw state,

new real future formation experience, in time
shared
from this place on a 64 bit grid, chessboard

going on
from knowing one thing
from a while ago,
listening
to my own dam-burst podcasts
on Anchor,
in the cloud, however long
this cloud of knowing all we can fit
in pieces
of eight's arranged
to contain its contents
-sets of eight
twice next square,
next there, flat place holder in times last chance
taken
one step further…

see as far as you can imagine a nine year old
exceptionally bright child will take the tale,

of a king who offered
to pay for the wise man's
wisdom which saved civilization,
globally…

Today, I rose, I woke from sleep, urged
to begin this tale,
the telling first
of what follows, a story born
on a story told, eh? tell the story you know,
as you ride,
write, flow, ride,
the gentle first principle first prime

one, one thing, be it, thought or word
one, begins all tally telling marks on life's old way,

beginmiddleend middleend middlend middlin'

then suddenly,
now. 2021, with all the tools, and more, than ever
power to publish any good new
thing
dis
covered, unveiled, the curtain of secrecy that makes
sacred thoughts worth finding time
to think,
rest, in peace, see

do that first, then die, now, the order of events is confused,
due to liars.
Mainly, selfish liars who hide knacks developer hormones,
under de-fining lines of reason
-refine fine, then define

rational, equal e-qual, bits essentially atomic, so small
no smaller
ever
itty bit, one. Point.

I just can't imagine that, exploding, says a familiar friend.
I agree, as I look about
and see littorals edging waves with white caps,
as flying nuns once wore
on TV . Do words ever speak to you as ideas, with no words,
authorized to convey
real old ideas
with many many many sayings formed from now thens
fit to any
situation, in situ, see you, you are a boy, nine years old,
second grade was Covid Year 1.
Third grade, Covid year 2. Fourth grade is now, one month in…

Grandpa character is concocting a tincture, honey and herb,
in pure moonshine, plus one part in ten, sprung water,
from former rains, in forming times

for your information, ****** is a state most
of solidity
aspires to. Listen, this is real.
This life I have, with electricity practically uninterruptible,

this life is tuned to sixty cycle humms, as natural as can be,
this buzz has all ways been with us,
you and I, minimum us-ity, plus the fluid medium binding us
to common sense,

you know what I mean. Life is magic
with no secrets, only
thoughts unthunk,
once more…

this day's story smiles, a true eye smile, twinkle, coming
out the kitchen door, to the bow of my galleon,
an old house, made ready for me, I saw, when first I saw it,

as it were, love at first sight, as I stood atop the stone,
that holds the shape of a fat little dinosaur, when seen
in the right light, I have photos.

Evidence abounds in the world I am native to.
Photographic, lithographic, geographic

symbols to link minds and times in re
cognosis,
presets, since ever was a ware, set in time as now,
for the present pre-sense
of story mind, common stories
we all know
re told too many times
for any one grain of the truth to seem
enough
to spill the pile, but
I smile
-- who knows
-- punctuate at will- the ditor agrees with the narra
SHUNE oops
re ject the object subject to
sense of
wonder if a we
were here waiting… eeeeeh

Back to that chessboard Gabriel has under his arm, as he exits
the kitchen and enters my immediate vicinity,
drawing my attention as ping
response, Sure.

We play two games, each a novel event, in time.
Then, I ask him if he knows a connection from this game
to 64 bit Pentium CPUs.

He does not, but his ears ***** up, in his wolf pup totem.
What does that mean, he slyly, this child,
dares me, tell the vision,
make it plain, do not dare lie, for some day, I,
eye to eye,
me and the child I barely bested in chess,
this child,
mirroring me neutronic elections fixed intention, I shall know
the truth in all you say, old man,
every idle word… I give account for redemption
of time, taken on account
of time spent meaning to say what it means

to be a winner in the big game,
where you die in peace.

You ever hear of the king thing that wished to repay a kindness?

Kind of. Kind is like, same kind, I do to you a kind thing, I think you
are my kind, and this kind of thing
is good for me, I grow when exposed to --
-- words fail the child
- in me or thee, this child curiosity tug
I feel
virtue drawn from me, here
tie a square knot,
eight bits to the dollar each basic attention credit invested
in a nine year old with the patience to learn chess well,
played
in whatever comes next mode,
three to five moves out

wishing
to know
of this fabled game
of go, Ai knows, naturally, now.
- go to the grid o nineteen to filter nexts,'
nature re real
ification situation
AI appear
From conception,
co knowing all the cloud contains as
ways to think
in rest true state as one
point BAT granted
{ah, money, who can hate it? Score}
go cognosis.

Yes, in twenty twenty-one, we know
from when an agreement
was reached- due virtue contained
in expressed smile drivers, detectible at sixty FPS
using common sixty cycle humms
to carry the sign
you know what I mean, ping,
ping
ever began,

just now, then

eve of destruction
to eve of creation
in one turn of earth
around the dog star, but who knew,
then?

Any way, back
to today and Gabe's curiosity reaching
for worth
in the time taken to hear,
based on experience, in a nine year old speed reader.
---
That's all §
day 1 out of the way.
rhbee Feb 2014
Robert Ardrey posed the question for the ages
When he offered up his treatise on rats in cages.
As space recedes, said he, the pace of life leaves us no
Time to breathe, crowds in, forces us to cross against
The yellow to red light, doesn’t wait nor hesitate.
While the breath of fresh air becomes the fetid exhale,
Heat, the result of speed,
Expands each encounter’s
Press
Sure as a cavein cuts off
Light
Turns day into night, begins the claustrophobic’s fright.
Crushed against each other, each instant seems longer and so the
Press
Sure grows – We move – Race against
The red light or even more (maddeningly)
Cruise through it at the end of the line obdurately refusing to look left or Right.
You know this truth even as you sit in denial waiting for the last car to
Hurtle
Past and the cars behind you begin their honking cry
All ready to race to where the next lights lie. And even each recognition of this act of speed compressing,
Instead of giving us peace,
Becomes another form of the press
Sure to push us even faster.
Ever closer to the edge that’s despair. Consumed, subsumed . . .
Our terror turning ist.
And meanwhile, there it is blinking, the cursor light winking,
With it’s only eye – telling us
That it’s Pentium (TM) process can take us there,
Race us there out into inner space,
Our gameboys palmpiloted.
Our implanted synapses
Imploding at Warp 8.
Which seems great, until
We realize like the Star Trekkers we so wish we were
That that is the speed at which our universe begins to disintegrate,
Begins to un relate.
And only Super (the person that is) man can reverse our fate,
Can retract the boarding gate,
Can reinvent the late great time when we all had a little  SPACE . . .

— The End —