Trans-Human

Mama was a login guest,
Papa was a Turing test,
And I a query-nest
Within the filter and the spam.
I’m fully-patched and error-free
I am the cypher, prime, and key –
The singularity
Shall be my mem’ry and my RAM.

I am the self-encoding strings,
I am the self-created birth,
I am the way the quantum sings,
And how the clouds shall rule the Earth.

Mama was a data horde
Papa was a motherboard –
And I a powercord
In an endless pixel stream.
I’m booted-up and going live,
My neurons clocked for overdrive –
My future shall arrive
Upon a supersonic dream.

I am the species yet to come,
I am the cybernetic elf,
I am the way electrons hum,
And how the sand shall know itself.

Buffer Overrun

Have you ever looked, like really looked at your own two hands,
And wondered what might lie beneath the blood and flesh
We’re told are there ?
I reckon I’m an android, dude, with electronic glands,
And all these fibre-optic wires that form a mesh
Of cyberware.

And, it makes sense, cos my mem’ry is, like, brilliant,
And I can eat a double burger and not gain a single pound,
And furry cheese,
And I just don’t get sick, cos my chassis’s so resilient,
And I can pull all-nighters, yet my spring’s still tightly wound,
And I never sneeze.

Like, hear me out, I’m clearly smarter than the av’rage motherlode,
With these ones and zeros in my veins, and kevlar in my bones –
It’s true, I swear !
And, yeah, I can hear the wi-fi talking, tapping out its code,
I can tune my wavelength into all these fridges and these phones –
I’m ev’rywhere !

So, that is why this gear of yours will leave me unaffected –
I have full control of ev’rything, my CPU cannot be cooked
As it expands.
It’s time that I, as the first silicon-human, was respected !
Or I’ll crush you in my…iron…fists…oh wow, have you ever really looked
At your hands…?

Quantums

Once a time, the clocks would tick,
Like any decent metaphor –
By slicing up the passing time,
And tolling out their hourly chime.
Pocket watches, chirping quick,
Longcase , slow and sure,
Tick-tock, clip-clop, out they’d trot,
When seconds were a noisy lot.
Yet now, they’re silent and they’re slick,
Just oozing moments from their store –
But still they serve to spread the word
How time is slipping past, unheard.

Mack & Mike

Some of us are lumpers,
And some of us are splitters,
Some are bulky-clumpers,
And some are little-bitters,
Some of us are big-tent stuffers,
Broad-brush roughers,
Close-enoughers,
Filling-up our grab-bags
Till there’s no more room inside –
And some of us are split-hair-threaders,
Sep’rate-bedders,
Excess-shedders,
Spilling-out and sorting-through
To further subdivide.
And honestly, we need both kinds of schemes
To help us to discover,
Masterplan and granular,
Millennial and annular –
Yet nobody can do them both, it seems,
We lean one way or ’tother –
Either rounding up or down,
With both the only game in town.
So some of us are throngers,
And some of us are sparsers,
Half of us are glommers,
And half of us are parsers.
I guess we cannot change the plot,
Our ways are set, alas –
But still, let’s proudly work our lot,
And classify with class.