Tuesday, 14 February 2012

The Machine

We are all plugged into
                         the machine
but the machine is now
                         the Earth.

Its furrows are now areas
                         of low bandwidth,
its rivers the confluences
                         of cables.

But all I want is to be
                          a voice for it,
become the beauty, the suffering
                          the variety.

This grey machine still thrums
                          with colour
if you adjust your eyes to the light
                          so very carefully.


  1. I think its confluence?

    (not s)

    I don't like the first stanza - I think the title alone merging onto the its furrows... could stand on itself? I think its too disjointed as the rest of the stanzas have a much nicer flow....



  2. Cheers, James. I did look it up (because I am anal like that - I do Language, for frick sake!) and it turns out the plural is actually conflux! I'm not using that word for fear of coming across as a pretentious twat, so I'll leave it for now. It'd be cool if you'd show me what you mean in person. Gonna check out the podcast you did, too - Tom and Sam tell me you covered some interesting ground. I wrote all three of those Earth-kissing poems on the train, hence why they might seem a bit rushed! I'd like to expand this one.

    Thanks once again. x