Think of me as you will. Have I become a thought I've had? A pulse, a spark, a positive, a yes, an on, a true, a single digit on a circuit's highway travelling through dark? I make my way. Or not. Am carried by a multitude a crowd of those like me across a field and on towards my destination with little more awareness or chance to choose my fate than if it had been written in my genes. I'm hustled into Diode Street ablaze with lights just now (and - as you know - one-way). I feel the sudden loss of power that Diode Street induces, pause for a moment close beside The Cathode Cinema. The screen outside is showing snippets of the film within. Experimental. Must be. Very. Lambs gambol in a field of numbers, the farmer's forking sentences into a cart. Why does the pause go on? The throng is getting restless. Up ahead capacitors are charging and discharging all of which takes time a lot of time (for someone in a rush) allows the traffic to be regulated. Eases down the rush is the printed circuit board's equivalent of traffic lights. Trains of square wave pulses ghost across the screen, distort both texts and images - if only we could disentangle them: There is always a voltage drop across a diode where sheep graze on open hillsides there resistance is measured in Ohms the pasture in the valleys is constructed differently to the field effect transistors and the gate providing access to the stream should be shorted to the source until the circuit is complete. The last wave shatters and the sheep graze on a neural network which fades to diagrams pin diagrams extensive memory blocks (but not the sort we suffer from) then back to neural networks. It's oscillating now, between the two. Which is when I see myself sparking between the two mapped to the screen and travelling fitfully on both both at the same time - a situation quite devoid of logic, which is why, perhaps, the screen can't settle down. Where sheep are grazing in the upper pastures or in the fusiform gyrus a neuron may fire only when a certain face appears and sheep graze in its known receptive field or on the open hillsides. It is also known that some parts of the brain produce a pattern of electrical activity that corresponds to layouts of retinal images and the gate opens to imagery originating from the senses The sheep have trampled and/or consumed the final paragraph. However, in the brain, memories are very likely represented by activation patterns among these neuron networks. Such representations are formed, retrieved and reach conscious awareness by means not completely understood. We move at last approaching now a landscape built of silicon. Impure. Doped with phosphorus or boron A semi-conducting wilderness in which an empty city stands supreme. It's guarded by a flight of logic gates NAND EiTHER/OR and AND I am admitted. Once inside, it boasts a huge expanse of memory blocks I circle them repeatedly the pin addresses do not match the one I have. Could this be journey's end?
The moon petals the sea. Rose petals the sea. Stone sea. Stone petals. Rose petals of stone. Stone rising before me. Sea moves. How moves...
extract from the poem Koi by John Burnside All afternoon we've wandered from the pool to alpine beds and roses ...
Hello everyone who follows David King (My Father). On behalf of the family this post is to let you know that Dad sadly passed away, peacefu...
It all depends, you see, how you go about it. And that I cannot tell you, for that will be dictated by you and by you knowing your friends...
What makes us suppose that only the living grieve? Now all but lost in this new and familiar world of tall, leaning-together buildings...
Monday, 4 July 2011
Journey to Oblivion
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a tour de force Maestro King! the only thing I missed was a wheatstone bridge ... very clever
Amazing, well done! I found it frightening and disturbing, though.
Open-mouthed . . .
This one is so powerful Dave. Bravo.
This poem really transported me. Strong, imaginative, frightening.
You certainly know how to take us on a ride!
Very powerful Dave!
Wow--look at this! I love all the switches in voice, all fragmenty....
I don't believe we are nothing more than electrical impulses... I don't know or understand quite what, but unknown is not the same as oblivion, I don't think. That aside, this is a remarkable poem David, as so many of yours are. Thank you.
Not written with a poetry app I trust? Good, strong stuff.
Another powerful, and powerfully ghostly, work. It's remarkable the "poetic" intensity you put in your blog, it must require a tremendous energy.
Excellent stuff. Glad to be back and reading your work again.
I have to agree with Tommaso you have an incredible style, you're a brilliant writer this was fascinating and
I didn't mean to send half a comment geez. And a how put it disorienting in a good way. My name is Candice not Amber
A very long journey through the matrix on the back of sheep, very quaint and powerful indeed :-).
Wow! what a rhythmic journey.
Too kind! Many thanks.
Sorry I frightened you. That was not the intention.
That's kind of you. Thanks.
Hope it was a pleasant transportation.
Well, as long as you enjoyed it...
Thanks for that.
That's good to know. Much appreciated.
I agree, I wasn't saying that's what we are, just what it might be like to be a pulse of electricity. The sort of thing you're asked to write in school - or were - the journey of a postage stamp etc.
Hi and welome friend. Thanks for the comment. My phone wont have anything to do with apps!
Very appreciative of your comment. Doesn't always seem that way to me, but it's good to know that it does to others.
Really good to have you back. Thanks for the comment.
Good to have you visiting. Thanks for the very generous comment.
Well, a very warm welcome to you under any name. Thanks for coming and for commenting. V ery much appreciated.
Thanks again. The feedback is valuable.
Glad you thought so. Thank you.
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