Musings
an Online Journal of Sorts

By Alyce Wilson

Lazy day. Up late. Too much caffeine. Here's a somewhat relevant poem.

A Cyberpunk Speaks of Love

My meat parts are fond of you. Don't know
about the brain; haven't downloaded that part.
I have destroyed my interchangeable wetware,
file chips I slip into my neat
brain crevice. Gone: my programs for random
sexual encounters, capriciousness; the only
brain implant I kept was for "cool." Style is
everything...

Now, I code myself a string of commands.
Accessed by voice mail, only by you. No
shareware for this batch. All restrictions apply.
But be warned: I have spread myself
through cyberspace. You see, I've been pulled apart,
bits at a time, by those who need me. The Net connects
my seperate bits with silver floss, almost invisible.
So you can take one part -- my toe, for instance --
and say you own it. But 'til I break the ICE
blocking the rest, you must wait.

I should ask what you'll do with my spare parts,
should you want them,
but my center no longer speaks to the peripheries; carefully monitored
synapses have been dampened. I could patch them together,
a hack... I'll send a message out. But first,
I'll navigate my neurons, assess the damage
of your last kiss.

bad character
bad file name
system error

                                                      - April, 1994

Copyright1994- 2003 by Alyce Wilson

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