We work in the dark
We do what we can
We give what we have
Our doubt is our passion,
And our passion is our task
The rest is the madness of art.
-- Henry James
A couple of poems about computers. Desipte the relationship between many users and their computers, I haven't been able to find too many poems!
And a few of poems that have nothing to do with computers, but that I happen to like:
Click here for the story behind this one.
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Put another password in, Bomb it out and try again Try to get past logging in, We're hacking, hacking, hacking. Try his first wife's maiden name, This is more than just a game, It's real fun, but just the same, It's hacking, hacking, hacking. |
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I haven't a love life, so I hug the keys, And abhor the warm sun and the soft summer's breeze, I lock all the doors and then dive in the screen, And hack with a another geek nerd Cyberese. Our skin is grown pale (it is the pin's fee), And atrophied muscles like soft shrunken peas Move fingers beyellowed from puffballs of cheese, We earn not a penny, but do as we please. We surf the net daily like golden tan gods, Who stride 'cross the beach with their glorious bods. We stay up all night with nery a nod, And bath only when we reek like dead cod. We hack into systems and take a few files, And leave in their place :-) :-) and :-) :-) Invincible are we in all of our wiles, Except in the courtroom when we are on trial. |
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Had we but World enough, and Time, This coyness Lady were no crime. We would sit down, and think which way To walk, and pass our long Loves Day. Thou by the Indian Ganges side. Should'st Rubies find: I by the Tide Of Humber would complain. I would Love you ten years before the Flood: And you should if you please refuse Till the Conversion of the Jews. My vegetable Love should grow Vaster then Empires, and more slow. An hundred years should go to praise Thine Eyes, and on thy Forehead Gaze. Two hundred to adore each Breast. But thirty thousand to the rest. An Age at least to every part, And the last Age should show your Heart. For Lady you deserve this State; Nor would I love at lower rate. But at my back I alwaies hear Times winged Charriot hurrying near: And yonder all before us lye Desarts of vast Eternity. Thy Beauty shall no more be found; Nor, in thy marble Vault, shall sound My ecchoing Song: then Worms shall try That long preserv'd Virginity: And your quaint Honour turn to durst; And into ashes all my Lust. The Grave's a fine and private place, But none I think do there embrace. Now therefore, while the youthful hew Sits on thy skin like morning glew, And while thy willing Soul transpires At every pore with instant Fires, Now let us sport us while we may; And now, like am'rous birds of prey, Rather at once our Time devour, Than languish in his slow-chapt pow'r. Let us roll all our Strength, and all Our sweetness, up into one Ball: And tear our Pleasures with rough strife, Thorough the Iron gates of Life. Thus, though we cannot make our Sun Stand still, yet we will make him run. |
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Oh that my soul a marrow-bone might seize! For the old egg of my desire is broken, Spilled is the pearly white and spilled the yolk, and As the mild melancholy contents grease My path the shorn lamb baas like bumblebees, Time's trashy purse is as a taken token Or like a thrilling recitation, spoken By mournful mouths full of mirth and cheese. And yet, why should I clasp the earthful urn? Or find the frittered fig that felt the fast? Or choose to chase the cheese around the churn? Or swallow any pill from out the past? Ah no, Love, not while your hot kisses burn Like a potato riding on the blast. |
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Only in silence the word, only in dark the light, only in dying life; bright the hawk's flight on the empty sky. |