Chimney ghost stop wailing,
on this windy day.
I find the noise a-bit scary,
in a mournful kind of way.
With no welcome for you here,
wood stove door stays shut tight.
You want out, go upwards,
‘less you’re looking for a fight.
I understand how social media,
auction sites and search engines,
passing information amongst themselves,
without any direct,
I notice my own passing thoughts,
birthed in my brain,
appear soon afterwards as adverts on the computer screen.
I don’t understand how this is happens.
Clever algorithmic deduction?
because I am a file within a simulation.
A plaything of a programmer,
who resides in a different dimensional universe.
What happens …
if the programmer gets bored with me?
Or decides to eat out this evening,
closing the lid of the laptop.
Is that it,
Does the programmer sleep when I sleep?
Does a night shift programmer replace the day shift,
with programming all the mad dreams I have,
If this is so,
is my ‘day’ programmer boring and unadventurous,
just grinding out an existence,
working to live,
only to pay the rent,
bills and monthly maintenance of an overdaft?
my life isn’t very interesting and if I’m just a file in a simulation,
then my programmer is responsible for my mundane life
If I was my programmer,
I’d make it that I won a record money win on a lottery.
Then sit back,
observe how it played out.
I guarantee it would make good viewing.
Maybe it’s because I am a small file,
in a simulation in which my programmer isn’t solely my programmer.
the programmer is having fun and dedicating more time with other files,
by-and-large ignoring me,
as a virtual non-entity,
within a much bigger picture.
I don’t know what to do to get the programmer’s attention.
I was never good at getting other’s attention.
Even people who’ve known me well,
have walked straight past me,
without noticing me.
Friends, family and lovers alike.
What chance do I have with a programmer from a different dimensional universe?
Nowadays, I cry at anything.
Ben E. King
singing Stand By Me.
Marley and Me end scene
Federal Air Marshal Bill Marks.
A real-life eulogy,
for a dead mother,
spoken by a grieving daughter.
Four examples that get me going, guns blazing waterworks, every time.
©Brinkinfield 2020 All Rights Reserved
Part of the Ekphrasis Project (poem inspired by a picture)
(Annotation by Brinkinfield)
Sunday July 4th, 2120 (Possible typo? How could it be ~100 years in the future?)
They’re everywhere now, the blue-coloured hair women, swamping city streets, filling up bars and restaurants, taking over businesses, banks, major conglomerates, media outlets and universities. I’ll be lucky if I’ll find work as an accountant in this county, ever again.
(Monday and Tuesday, entries torn out from journal)
Wednesday, July 7th, 2120
Three days in a row now, I’ve woken up to find a blue hair coloured woman posted outside my cottage (and all down the street, outside the neighbours, too). Earlier, I went out to ask of her business and she forcibly pushed me, with her hand flat against my chest, back through the front door without saying a word. I’ve got to say, I thought her pretty hot, but it’s no excuse for rudeness!
(Thursday page, blank)
Friday, July 9th, 2120
I tried to go out this morning, with my food shopping list, fridge is empty. The blue hair woman pushed me back again, growling and baring her teeth at me! When I turned to bolt back inside, she slapped my bottom cheeks hard, left and right! Both are still stinging, seated on a cushion as I write-up this entry. After I’d regained my composure and pride, I went back to the front door, got on my knees and shouted through the letterbox, telling her I’d already alerted the police. When I peered through to gauge a reaction, she turned around and gave me the finger.
Saturday, July 10th, 2120
Midday, the internet is switched off. Nothing but a 404 error message or a question mark symbol centered within a blue square, depending on which site I try. Blue woman is still there. Earlier, she tapped on the kitchen window and pointed towards the front door. She’s got really long, well manicured finger nails. Still think she’s really hot. I found a food box left outside the front door, lots of veg, granola, almond milk and dried soya mix : (
Sunday, July 11th, 2120
4am, I can’t sleep. I can’t stand this ‘no internet’ situation much longer. I might as well be living in a cave. One week isolated and I’ve got absolutely no idea what’s happening on the outside. I’ve decided I’m left with only one option: seduce the bluie, get her onto my side, then see if any other renegades are willing to join us. See if we can’t get the internet back on and life back to some semblance of order!
(Monday page blank)
Tuesday, July 13th, 2120
I’ve written out Bluie’s daily schedule, based upon notes taken yesterday, while observing her closely from the bathroom window. At least now I understand she is armed with the latest Walther pistol, concealed under her dress, the holster strapped to her left thigh. As I watched, she spun the weapon around on her fingers, practiced replacing the magazine and aiming. I have to say, she looks pretty handy with it. At around mid afternoon, she looks tired and bored, several hours still, before she is relieved by the night shift. This gives me plenty of time to enact my plan, venture outside, confront and reason with her to switch sides, locate like-minded folk and form a resistance. If she refuses, I’ll soon show her who’s boss, for sure!
(End of journal, no further entries)
©Brinkinfield 2020 All Rights Reserved
Part of the Ekphrasis Project (story inspired by a picture)