• Vol. 10
  • Chapter 01

This is the poet’s inner monologue in a digital age

This is a poem that was once written
On a computer that is now outdated
I am a computer program
I write poems on a flash drive
I see a hand in a virtual space
Holding a neon-coloured Rubik's Cube
I am an artificial intelligence
Writing this poem
Which is a description
Of an image in my mind
Hold up a mirror to my heart
That is not real
In front of a neon-coloured
Rubik's Cube
That is not real
(That is not real)
The heart beats on the third floor
Of a building that is not visible
A Rubik's Cube
The heart beats in a place
Where no one else can see
And when the heart beats
A song is sung
And a tune is played
That is heard by no one

1

This is the poet’s inner monologue in a digital age

In the company of a girl
That is not real
(In the company of a girl
That is not real)
Among whose ancestors
There is no one
Who is not a host of a bug
That is not real
In a country where there is no
Tower of Babel syndrome
That is not real
Is there a girl here
That is not real
A girl with a high-pitched voice
Who is not real
The Rubik's Cube is not a Rubik's Cube
It's a globe
A globe of blue-and-white
Against a background of black-and-red
The heart beats on the third floor
Of a building that is not visible
A Rubik's Cube
The heart beats in a place
Where no one else can see
And when the heart beats
A song is sung
And a tune is played
That is heard by no one

2

This is the poet’s inner monologue in a digital age

In the company of a girl
That is not real
(In the company of a girl
That is not real)
And a voice is being recorded
And the voice is being heard
And the voice is being listened to
And the voice is being downloaded
And the voice is now streaming

3