On the outskirts of one of the Milky Way’s
spiral arms, massively parallel POWER7
processors shaped a silhouette and everyone
knows what happens next: you couldn’t get
into modelling so got a job collecting urine
for algorithms. Now I know what it felt like
when fences put shepherds out of business.
Across the fuss, a corridor rolls onto another
corridor, then onto the freeway. Bundles of
selfish energies populate this fictional bit-
map, plain men in plain suits, plain men with
selfish centres driving biblical machines in
seemingly unstoppable motion. We have
spare fear stashed at the next stop, they say.
Once the data was released, we were angry
at the boggle of decimal excess, the worlds
wrought in cabling, the best red velvet cake
possible from all permutations. Our ghosting
awareness training alerted us to his thin white
skin, tanned flat as an icon. The Quran says
that a spider’s web makes the frailest home.
Elsewhere (not at all plain build), the name-
less 3.6 billion looked for food but found warm,
salted coral. Heat becomes bone, marrow, meds.
Where am I placed in this congested race into the
unknown unknown? Underneath this anatomy
there’s a jaded old avatar weighed down with
each pulse of unfunded cosmic consciousness.
Erotic robots have already sniffed which way
the wind is blowing, old fashioned pattern
recognition won’t cut it anymore and the
next lubricant shortage could see them back
in the fields picking strawberries. Thankfully,
aesthetic sensibility is not essential. Farming
and gardening are not the same as astronomy.
Alternative Facts, Bad Luck and Bad Timing
left us with an Amateur Hour Adobe After
Effects background and the sound of women
cradling babies in the ruins of a city in the Middle
East. Mostly there are too many pulses to process,
too much acid-wash rhetoric, not even my grooming
accessory can make up for the absence of poetry.
Men with Selfish Centres
1 November 2017