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Awful things
the empty vowel-corners of its
weird consonants
and the jaggers of
skeletals scrape through my veinsgutheart
the ribbon colours are fake-bright, unfolding
as microsoft screensavers did
against a black background
in nine-year-old computer rooms
as it monsooned outside: already
the background noise of doom
and now the screaming glass-white of
twenty-year-old fume hoods
(i can’t see what’s going on; only
maybe-colour-change and
the blind grabbing around of
iterative saturation mutagenesis)
and the coldwhirring
powerpoint slides and centrifuge
awful white things
they’ll save people but they’ll kill me
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