Tag Archives: poetry

Gaymergate, James Renshaw

 

Get triggered by my bara-tiddy worship,

a can’t-unsee in your rule34 search –

the SFM McHanzo ship too stronk

for a bronze-tier tinder dudebro. Yeah

I’ll find someone like you raging on

a dell fit for CS:GO.

 

You’ve programmed me to be a lurkr,

an NPC following custom Dank Souls

rules, forever fucked in the faget spam –

teabags with the hacker’s headshot

(git gud) (deal with it), and

crackles of your e-peen playback

from a booth-babe Razer headset.

 

Are you in a monochrome cult classic

closed convention for the nerds who

grew up gains, and for those devolved

into fedora goblins – pimple neckbeards –

double-teaming G.I.R.Ls just so long

as you can common ground the cleavage

of Lara Croft’s supple poly prisms?

 

(I’ll bet you’d find them moist)

 

I can just feel your hands now: sticky –

bad handling of the pre-cream n’ tissues –

glossed over with the dirt of Doritos

and a fine Mountain Dew finish,

ready for some low-key ERP

STR8 hero fapfests in a hetero World

of Warcraft –

 

your fantasy; you know we’re living

a testosterone conundrum:

dat male blood-elf ass barrage,

all deez beefs and swole, and waves

after endless waves of orc cock

capping your daily quest logs.

 

But you’re salty. You can’t even

reality; butthurt that Bioware bitches

can warp the conversation wheels

and mod a man from your head

canon into the nope-depths

of the online dark side.

 

Welcome. Login

to the Grindr app crossover –

your sacred mancave backdoor’d

by the furfags and double rainbows;

you know what it means. ParTy up

and protect your fragile masculinity

from my emoji raids, encrypted:

1. SMiley2. Eggplant3. point4. OK

inb4 the Tumblrina cries, inb4

the Reddit downvote karma-fire,

before the 4chan trolls swarm,

doxx and DDoS with unsolicited

rootkit dick pics. GTFO

or get rekt.

 

 

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Westfall, James Renshaw

1.

At Saldean’s Farm was where I first met you rustling in the silverleaves,

in briarthorns, between the haystacks and broken-down harvest watchers.

Your low-poly green hair mismatched Westfall’s orange oversaturation,

and the ambient loops were far too calm, too quiet, for the way you ran

along the ash-brown stick fences, to the herbalism nodes and back again.

I yelled out to you (I meant to whisper)   /yell lol hey what r u doin

And everyone knew.   Swiftthistle      you wanted them for alchemy.

/yell whats alchemy    You /laugh      I traded you bread and water.

You gave me back the water.

 

2.

On the long stretch of Westfall’s coast was where we fished for treasure.

The wreckage spawns, spread thin beside the schools of oily blackmouths,

had linen, wool, and lockboxes. You could pick lockboxes. You could fend

off the packs of gurgling murlocs as I fumbled B for my 6-slot newbie bags,

looking for space. I had offered to help you when you stealthed and sneaked

up close to them for mageroyal and chests. (I could sheep) (I could nova)

(would dampen you) but you told me     /p dw i got it     /p roll on malachite

and     /p run away if i die                   I didn’t.     I died with you, chasing

your wisp form as a ghost, running to our lifeless bodies on the sand.

 

3.

When it rained over Westfall, the grass fields rendered in a sombre lime hue.

I was gathering your swiftthistles while you queued for Warsong Gulch, and

up on the Dagger Hills, I could see the flicks of low-res raindrops falling down

on the water by the lighthouse. You loved the thrill of PvP: running to and from

between the desert and the forest, capturing red flags, defending your own

Alliance blue. In there you chugged through speed-pots faster than we could

make them. The gold we could have made on the AH, we’d have epic mounts

ready for 60.    (You wouldn’t ever be 60)      /w its fun playing with you

you whispered me as you flew back to Sentinel Hill on a griffon taxi.

 

4.

At the Dead Acre was where I last saw you farming on the old tilled soil,

between the derelict mill and the wagon sunken in the ochre overgrowth.

You were killing off the harvest watchers, the strongest in the zone, but the

loot was glittering, and greyed-out names dotted my FOV. (I ran to see you)

(sprinted out from Duskwood)   I   /wave /wave /wave   and you /yell stop

(you meant to whisper). You partied up with me and said     /p im gonna quit

You traded me swiftthistles. You gave me back the bread. Then I watched you

in the Westfall night counting down from 20 to the exit.       You whispered me

/w you were a good friend             And I hearthed away when you logged off.

 

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Discord, James Renshaw

 

Cmd:   enigmatic apparition.

Animator images, processing rhythmic

words queued first as tacit-tactile,

synesthetic modes on mechanical [WASD]

– transmitting –       01100011 01101111

01101110 01110110 01100101 01110010

01110011 01100001 01110100 01101001

01101111 01101110   – transmitted –

as the left thumb beats [SPACEBAR].

Smash [ENTER] / Electric ultimatum.

Run:        the VOIP chill. Replica clutch, nail bites,

metronomic mouse-click hesitations –

FWD TO: peripherals

>press down [NUM](push-to-talk);

>push up (release)[NUM];

{Identify Connection?}             >input:

navigate my spine;                 >rasp:

the cerebellum; >pulse:           inhale;

>spiral: ears,                       exchange,

ASMR secrets;                     express

{YES} to me between the GPU fan-force

{NO}               white-noise-background

muffling the timbre in your mic.

Cmd:   troubleshoot me.          [CTRL] +

Interaction error 502               [SHIFT] +

bad gateway. You can              [ESC]

{X} to end human.exe(not responding)

if: high memory use;

if: unknown program;

if: first time connection;

if: unsecure;

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Ghosting, James Renshaw

 

Ghosting                                             Ghost

 

Hey                                                                                 Hey

    . . .                   . . .

 

I thought we could make it                  I couldn’t bear the thought

an idea formed from intimate               this idea made from vague

stop-motion pictures, brief initiatives would unravel me,

snaps of the blind flash                       would lace us in the blind

fiction, a coming of age                       flash fiction, reeling films

text-to-speech in motion, then out of speechless emotions,

coffee with conversations,                   coffee stains painting us

eyes; we’re parting our lips exchanging breaths; eyes

     opened, closed, opened, closed, opened, closed,

and the world can be real –                 and the world can’t be real –

 

our sudden escalations                       this I know will escalate

to nowhere. Or if that                           to nowhere. Or if that

     somewhere was a place I’d be sure that I’d be

for pixel parks – hidden                       safe from myself – hidden

in the flood of Wi-Fi signals                 in a tangle of Wi-Fi signals,

to the sent histories, lingering              bogged down in the cache,

with scents dug into my bed ruminating over fragments

sheets, and memoirs of a spoon          left indented on the outskirts

      indented on the right – of your physical life.

you were melding with me                   How could we materialise

in the middle of it all.                           in the middle of it all,

 

I was morphing our existence,             complacent in this existence –

now knowing you after knowing me knowing after you knowing now

you as hexadecimal. Maybe               of these consequential infinities?

it’s me who’s locked within                 I don’t want to barricade you

the handset infinite regress, within my firewalls and 4G

        here where we shift out fortresses of cybernetics

the bones of our conscience – connected to the white skins

I didn’t know we could                        and shuffling flesh. I can’t

when we siphon fluid words                bleed the veins of my words –

from our thumbs and risk it                 I’ll pour until our voices turn

   in some level of purgatory dust in purgatory drought,

decay in digital permanence.              rotting under our fleeting guise.

 

But deletion is permanence, or            But deletion is fleeting, and

a paradox when a ghost                      freedom when a human

kisses me, holds me,                         holds me, kisses me, takes

leaves a spoon indented                      my soul and indents it

on the right edge of the bed, in the outskirts of his life,

and any further traces                         and any further traces

         found in ideas formed of lost ideas made shared

from these cold stop-motion                from warm, vague initiatives

pictures and brief snaps from              unravelled in these films from

the blind flash fiction is                       the blind flash fiction, is

           framed for a profile, framed for a memory,

empty and without a name.                 locked away without a body.

 

Swipe Right                 Swipe Left


 

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Rorka, Rohan Viswalingam

Blood be the body

Surging in it and out of it

Dribbling over the dimming eyes

Separating those eyes

 

Sending the fire out of the mind

Spurting it out of the head

Giving the body supremacy over the city

Drenching the windows in a fiery dark

 

The unmixable smoke

It penetrates the body

Hollowing it out of life

Destroying the centre

 

The crunching face rages with fury

Breathing the black smoke from the air

Sending it down through to the lungs

Deeper deeper go the tainted vapours

 

The city will fall before me

My power will snap the infrastructure

The statues will crumble

Until the rubble will be a second sea

 

The sea will roll interminably

Burning the bodies falling from the surface

Swallowing the enfettered souls

And I will watch those ghostly pained faces

 

Sulphur will penetrate the safe havens

Where the innocent are hiding

In their shady burrows

Warmed by their fleeting love

 

The Black Widows will peak out from the gaps

Come sprawling

Out over the totems of falling civilization

Possessing the newly purged landscape

 

Mercy, there will be none

Just a reminder ever brutal

That homes are temporary

That the reckoning is inevitable

 

The spirits have just been waiting

Forcing a false sense of security

To the lethargic inhabitants

That nothing will come of their decisions

 

But the nature of the land will take hold

Giving no creature a second dice roll

Erasing all hope in their prayers

Leaving but the peaceful silence before annihilation

 

We will teach the people

Of the hierarchy of breath

The legions of emissaries will show no mercy

And the land will be cleaned flat

 

The sea will calm

The Widows will relinquish their thrones

Leaving a vacant, dusty city

Waking up to a new age

 

And it is without the stragglers

For they have whittled themselves away

In the dark crevices that we made

The ones they hid in before perishing

 

The new sun will be born of water

The water of their blood

That ran down the buildings into the stream

And the sun will be called Rorka

 

The purity will be the rage

The rage of extinction

The seething hate of being chosen

Chosen to be vanquished by the upper power

 

The sun will warm the new places

Giving pulse to the dried up swamps

Giving jobs to the legged cripples that survived

And leaving the fallen rubbed into the darkness like charcoal

 

The old safe place is gone

The rebirth is complete

Total Completion

Purity from a sun

 

A new form must be made

A new leader of the second sun

Born from the new sea

And from the shadows of before

 

Build it

Start with the teeth

With black sperm squeezing through the gaps

Forming the gums and lips

 

It all comes back to what we destroyed

A refreshing of the old body

To make a new one

To command the Widows and sea

 

Fetch the parts from the old coves of death

Feed the veins from the seabed

Supply the bones from the graves in the buildings

Give me the soul from the Second Sun

 

The soul will be the centre

Herding the water around it

Connecting the tendons

Latching the veins together

 

Then an earthly being will form

A disgusting new being

A sick reminder of the past

But eventually a new ideal for the future

 

There will be no skin

Only the crimson muscle

And perfect white tendons

No shroud of skin to hide the lies

 

And Skinless will sit on a throne of waves

Constantly nourished by the water

Held above the rusted buildings of old

Giving it elevated reprieve from this sordid world

 

No new citizen will be forgotten

They will come to worship Skinless

They will fill the buildings

Stepping over the stale bones of the past

 

New words will come from Skinless

And the new citizens will learn the past

Learn the present

And they will know the future

 

 

Download a PDF of Rorka

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