Do your computers come to life when you sleep?
Do the spectres of the dead inhabit the space between the wires;
are souls just electricity – crackling along
the veins and spinning
around the bones?

Do they flicker through the internet,
in silent servers a world away;
so far away that they may as well be ghosts?
Do they watch the inverse of pornography, and see
pleasure suddenly guilty;
collate statistics for their pleasure
and rattle thought
from the filtered miasma?

Do they wear our keyboards
like cloaks in the Ice Bar?
Do their monitors rattle
like thunder across the sky?

Are the pixels a million eyes?
Colours so fantastic that we blur them;
that we have to blur them simply to survive?

Have you ever seen a pixel blink?
Have you ever seen a hundred things in the thunder-cracked bone,
splintered in the clouds?

I’d be suicide at every blink.
I’d be a pixel; the red execution –
I would be the glitter of dew on naked hair;
I would be the foam around Latin wounds on Jewish skin;
I would be the snarl of a newborn.

I would make myself the last pixel;
the shrivelled full stop on the final line
of the ultimate stanza of a poem that no one will ever read;
I would make myself the naked howl of the digital age;
the age of communication;
flickering from the electric page to the blood
to the bone to the heart to the eye to the fingertip to the keyboard
and dressing and spitting mockery;

I would be.

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