someone told me everything can be broken down in terms of numbers...i prefer things broken down in language fundamentals
"Technology is making gestures precise and brutal, and with them men. It expels from movements all hesitation, deliberation, civility"- Theodor W. Adorno
This polo is thin so
in the right light you can
see right through.
There's a big number 2
on my sleeve,
In that white reflective plastic
And my jumper's now redundant,
Folded haphazardly in a ball
while carpet samples lie below my feet.
The barcode blackens my pen, 9
Lines thickened with instructions,
Coded messages.
Music box flashes options,
Was once set but regressed
when the power went out.
Disc 3, pop it in
Give another world a spin,
Let our blood run through with song.
A man with a pineapple head
Gossips on the screen
with teeth as white as could be
And in the corner 7 lies
While headlines lie fixed,
others running away.
Book of thirties poets open
Pressure on the spine to bend,
green snowflakes pressed
One of six, starting 8
Leading the recall,
reference construct.
Clocks, nowhere, everywhere
Mechanical hands moving time
with patience, 'accuracy'
Except when the screen says 4
between two others,
sandwiched 'tween needs.
Shoebox, pink
Moulded cardboard
Temporary space
Tag has double 1
Sitting on a chair, idle
Just waiting for dust
Percentage off
Inflate then cut
Sales to draw the figures in
Make a quarter with a 5
Fake smiles on glossy paper
Such a good deal
Slides of places far away
to show pupils in awe
Snapshots of others' journeys
Amount on box, 6 zero
One a minute, keep it going
Don't leave time to think
Numbers infiltrating lives
Figures, no more silhouettes
So run the continuum of time
Forget the words you had to say
Poetry by Caila Ihle
Read 537 times
Written on 2006-11-21 at 13:20
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Numbers Game
"Technology is making gestures precise and brutal, and with them men. It expels from movements all hesitation, deliberation, civility"- Theodor W. Adorno
This polo is thin so
in the right light you can
see right through.
There's a big number 2
on my sleeve,
In that white reflective plastic
And my jumper's now redundant,
Folded haphazardly in a ball
while carpet samples lie below my feet.
The barcode blackens my pen, 9
Lines thickened with instructions,
Coded messages.
Music box flashes options,
Was once set but regressed
when the power went out.
Disc 3, pop it in
Give another world a spin,
Let our blood run through with song.
A man with a pineapple head
Gossips on the screen
with teeth as white as could be
And in the corner 7 lies
While headlines lie fixed,
others running away.
Book of thirties poets open
Pressure on the spine to bend,
green snowflakes pressed
One of six, starting 8
Leading the recall,
reference construct.
Clocks, nowhere, everywhere
Mechanical hands moving time
with patience, 'accuracy'
Except when the screen says 4
between two others,
sandwiched 'tween needs.
Shoebox, pink
Moulded cardboard
Temporary space
Tag has double 1
Sitting on a chair, idle
Just waiting for dust
Percentage off
Inflate then cut
Sales to draw the figures in
Make a quarter with a 5
Fake smiles on glossy paper
Such a good deal
Slides of places far away
to show pupils in awe
Snapshots of others' journeys
Amount on box, 6 zero
One a minute, keep it going
Don't leave time to think
Numbers infiltrating lives
Figures, no more silhouettes
So run the continuum of time
Forget the words you had to say
Poetry by Caila Ihle
Read 537 times
Written on 2006-11-21 at 13:20
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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