This scares me. Not the poem or Ms Pacman, but the fact that I have a live recording of my work that I can share on the internet.
So, this was a poem I wrote for a special Geek-themed variety night I was part of last year. It’s one of the few poems I’ve memorised, and a bit of a staple in my sets. Does this mean I’m going to retire it any time soon? No, it’s comedy gold (I’m not up myself, I swear). I hope you enjoy!
(ThisĀ is the first poem I ever wrote all the way back in August 2016, written in a combination of rage at the ever breaking printer in the office and depression. While it’s served me well, I’m deciding to retire it from slams and shows, but it’s nice to look back and see how far I’ve come)
If I was a machine
I would be the office printer;
Trying to connect to people
But I get that pop-up message that says
“Would you like to add this device to your trusted network”
And I say “I don’t know”.
I churn out work day after day
I do work for other people who then
Don’t give thanks or
Recognition.
I spend the days overused and underappreciated
And I’m walked past every day
And the most interaction I get
Is someone pushing my buttons to get a reaction.
And I copy the same things,
Going through the same motions,
And I wear out and no one seems to notice
That more than once a day I’m running on empty.
And no one notices the marks on the paper
That shouldn’t be there.
The vertical and horizontal lines and random ink spots
That look like nothing until you really start to stare.
It took a while before someone even noticed.
It wasn’t until the the paper was wrapped in
Red, blue and black ink that someone
Thought about calling technical support and didn’t.
Because it was beyond anyone else on how to try to fix it.
No one wanted to fix it.
“It’s not my job”.
But that wasn’t the point.
It shouldn’t have gotten that bad.
A printer can’t speak.
A printer isn’t heard.
It’s pushed until it jams and freezes and angry ink
Erupts across the paper.
You keep pushing the buttons and complain that
“It’s just not working”.
But that can’t stop you from troubleshooting the problem.
Ask the questions,
Find the fault,
Stop a problem before it gets worse.
Have you ever seen an inanimate object
Book itself into technical support?
It can’t be done.
It’s so paralyzed with
Confusion and fear and
Plastic.
But it cries into the fax machine,
Desperately hoping to make a connection,
Desperately hoping to call metaphysical technical support
To finally get the help I need but
I’m rooted to the ground
and routed through the ground.
Going through the motions,
Breaking a little more each day.
Sharp taste, sharp texture.
A light, single-serving snack.
It was delightful.
Question from Michael Clark from Facebook
Is it a metaphor for consumerism.
Regarding how the mass-market
Attempts to force new products down our throats,
Attempts to show that everything is replaceable
Attempts to make the new seem better and you should invest,
Despite the fact that the rich and obscene
Don’t really know what the people want or need?
Is it about mass-production,
A biting commentary on how
Saturation and over production
Is creating defects that are fit for consumption
But human nature encourages us to
Frown upon change and throw
Valued necessities away like yesterday’s trash?
Is it about genetic modification,
And how the scientific society has
Grown and developed to try to replace
Nature’s gifts before we destroy them,
But humanity is resilient and doesn’t want to
Give up on their heritage and history because
We hate and fear change and require
Something to blame for human misgivings?
Or am I overthinking it too much,
And it’s just a children’s book for children
Filled with colours and rhymes
To survive all of time,
Acting as a generational catalyst for
New and young readers?
Or is it just an important statement
About not eating Kermit and Miss Piggy’s children?
Question from my comedy buddy, Konal
Yes.
Allow me to shed some light,
Hear me out on this matter,
There is as much artistry backstage
As there is on the stage.
Sonic, scenic and visual artists
Set the scene and the score
And illuminate the microcosms
Of stage and screen while
Remaining unseen and unheard
While building walls of sound and
Tapestries of light and
Entirely illusory worlds.
Because it’s a big-top circus
And we’re the juggler, and trapeze, and the balancing act
Performing behind the scenes.
Getting everything ready before
The clowns enter the stage.
Playing God,
Controlling the light they walk in,
Adding the music and sound to the mundanity,
Cueing them into life.
We are valid true artists.
Hiding in shadows,
Lighting the way
Making the music,
But staying out of the spotlight.
Forever alone in black space,
Making every day our magnum opus
While no one pays attention
To the man behind the curtain.
Question from ‘A Curious Follower’ from WordPress!
Somebody once told me
That this song was the
Greatest Song in The World.
I believed them,
At the time, I wasn’t exactly
The sharpest tool in the shed.
I now realise I was wrong,
And the only people who believed it
Might as well have had their
Finger and their thumb in
Their ears, blocking out
All other opinions and
Never experienced real music.
YouTube is suffocating,
The parodies start coming
And they don’t stop coming,
With more samples than
Costco on a Saturday
And more covers than
The bedding section of IKEA
It’s spreading like a virus,
It’s spreading like an STD,
Infecting ears and brains
Like stereo herpes
Like cold sores on my inner ear,
An uncomfortable nuisance
Causing rage and discomfort
Proving that all that glitters
is not golden.
It needs to stop
I need to get away from this place
Things need to change.
We could all use a little change.
I’ll change the DVD to Shrek 2
And hope for the best.
Question from Michael Clark, and now I’ve got this song stuck in my head.
If memories were as easy to
Delete as the photographs on my phone,
I probably wouldn’t be happy.
Losing the past becomes as
Horrifically easy as
Just an uncoordinated finger.
New Age amnesia
Has become my downfall
Dyspraxia and tremors
Leave me shaking with anger
As precious memories
Of concerts, friends and my dog
Disappear into the digital aether.
Technology is supposed to make things easier,
An extension of ourselves
Keeping the memories that overflow
In a safe space.
But time and time again, my phone has
Proved it is just as fucked up and broken as me.
Or on the rare occasion that
An android update has not annihilated my fragile memory,
I have only myself and Google to blame.
The delete icon next to the upload icon
Without an option to cancel
Feels like a challenge for my broken hands.
I can feel your criticism already,
Why didn’t you back them up,
Why didn’t you set it up automatically?
It was, but because my phone is me,
It was too much and caused frequent crashes.
Now, my phone has as much memories as I do.
And the moral of the story is
Fuck Android.
This question and poem come are based on an early draft of a poem called “Digital Amnesia”
Mxcellany - Poetry, Music, Art 