Computer Love

by Phil Coales


DELL Dimension V400,
with Intel on the inside
and a Mattissean matte of terra-creme cream sheen
plastered over plastic that forms a shantily considered,
hastily rendered, terribly restored shell
on the outside,

you are the monster.

You have emblazonings.

You have emblazoned
thousands of pieces of personal informations
and resemblances
with serial tags and ‘Author Names’ and ID3 MP3
glitch-free identity storers,
boring deep beneath
the wires burrowed within
my house, escaping
past the chicken escalopes
of the freezer in the room you see into
through the wall and then the next wall,
and you see past and through and
present and futile
facsimile, and all the while,


until you
fill your soul with
a hundred and sixty gigabytes of
what once resembled hardcore porn,
now the scrupulous essay of a careless Deutsches Jungen,
an online chessboard, a series of zeroes and


and on,
and on,
and you whir mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
and you flicker sent light nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn
and you connect me to we
offer translation for free
commit discreet acts of burglary
store away hand-drawn images of tremendous vulgarity and,
all the while,

you just pretend like you don’t know,
like you don’t have a soul;
you breathe,
you read,
you complain,
you sing songs,
you ring internet service providers,
you relentlessly recharge,
you eat me out of house and home,
you remove the need for a telephone,
you refuse to load Google Chrome,
you plot pie charts and graphs year-on-year, week-on-week,
you view copious amounts of pornography;

yet I propose
one who knows
everything ever shown
in minute bits
by anyone with a keyboard and some sockets,
more than me,
possess a demanding need.

Otherwise you would’ve run out by now.

I sit here,
breathing very slowly;
you sit to attention
and I know
for sure
that I am
and therefore
you are.