Another day so spent on tinkering with bliss,
On forming from the edge of sight,
Forms unmeasured rising into light,
Such things inspiring - being inspired,
My very colours call to me to act,
This is some wonky part of art,
This is some muddled way of play,
This is quite something to be deep within.

It's getting comfy now,
This place of mine,
So full of colours and at last,
The walls are hung upon my art,
My words have found it,
A place within this boisterous bundle of wires.

I find myself again a tinkerer,
Too tucked and pulled within such tight machines,
Forget each dragging worlds beyond,
The clock is dead beneath the clanks.

An open letter from my world,
Running on the sliver of a cube,
Encased in all accreted cunning,
Of so many overclocked minds,
And likewise it shall mount in years,
With each footprint of my thought that I would share.

We're in at last, the tiny world unfurled,
My machinations lie at its true root,
The buzz and clinks, the quieted chatter,
The story told in scarcely alphabets,
I'll donne the builders hat and climb in bricks,
I'll make an edifice to show the world.

Half ciphered halls of crossing wires,
Black boxes make a city in the flat,
And seeming with some knowledge,
Screwdrivers descend to hoist,
Apartments to the heavens and begin,
A brief construction where all ends the same.

A world within a world I love,
So paradoxically vast and small,
Wraps tightly round the drifting globe,
Binds up the finest filaments in flight.

It is between so many and
yet comes to me alone,
It is so esoteric and
yet has a childish charm.

Troubleshooting blanks the bullets blindly bounce off,
The rubber that they are asserts the duel is up,
And I walk out alive the ring behind,
The street deserted, horse abandoned by,
So turning I look separate ways at once,
Stumble on a lesser thing not quite the,
End to trouble but a mere compromise.

Returning to the funny squares,
To play with the interpolation,
That whirrs away behind my eyes,
That makes the simple come alive,
The angles smooth, the motion filled,
With nuances that only dwell in the implied.

I fancy myself a mad pianist,
Striking measured fragments on the keys,
Growing ever familiar with my dear motifs,
Which layer into paragraphs and scripts,
To run as sprites through copper wires,
And swell into a bare-metal dream.

Flipping through the pages of a manual,
That stretches on until obscene,
Such knowledge careening out in scroll,
At least the page is tagged and unfolds with so many keys.
In rewiring this and that I found:
The heaps of raw complexity,
But peaking with my eyes half closed,
I'll find my fickle balance on this mass of ingenuity,
I'll spot the beast of cogs and know to turn!

Making ways down cryptic streets,
Hard market stools, bare faces worn,
The shutters closed in sync with eyes,
A stranger's country this I take,
Carve firmly out my lot and stake
My legs on walking through defeats,
I stagger 'fore a friendly hearth so warm,
A guide and keeper without lies,
To teach the ropes and dwelling make.

An adventure trod in jargon,
Functors maps and applications,
Sweet symbols in aesthetic syntax,
Faintly glancing upon the beams,
Of hidden structures in this lake of reason.

My oh my, don't you just like
To hurt my head each step I tread,
You show me that the path I walked,
Seems now to fork from just one head,
Serpentine elegance, you fearsome hydra!
A language built from tiny scales of dread,
This fang here seemed so quite complete,
Until you showed me as I read,
It's but a pretty reflection on your scales,

Composite in its consequence.

I am tired of your pictures,
Funny figures circle-dancing,
Why discard your caricatures,
At my feet until you're laughing,
So I ask you for a moment,
Would you care to hear my ranting?
No-gui~ No-gui~!
No-gui~ No-gui~!

Deeply lost within a fantastical land,
Embraced by forests of esoteric games,
Abbreviations of what I hardly know dressed up in leaves,
Perhaps I'll find a way to waltz upon the plains,
Firstly I must find a map to chart the trees.

Pattern matching syntax - what a thing
To seamless sit behind the lines,
Yet be such an intricate design,
I grasped the thought before explained,
But hadn't known you were to blame.

Giving motion to the site,
A sprinkle of a spin right there,
A flashing red on green on white,
And jumping symbols at the briefest glare.

Once again I set out to carve,
A place upon the face of information,
Falling with a vigour as if to starve,
The mind of gaps amidst the murmuration,

To find a dusty cleft to call a far off home,
To set a window looking to the waterfall,
Call out to weary travellers now to roam,
From storefronts to my garden wall,

The rock is thick. I too see why,
So few have ventured carving out a place,
This side of all the petty information lusting for our time.

Orchestrating a chiptune symphony,
Cueing eager silicon to hum,
I tinker in the plain text,
Seeking out the playfulness in all the noise.

Fun with frames,
Unchiselled into rougher shapes,
Refined into the impression of a movement,
Self-controlled to sit in neatly squares,
An homage to prior pieces,
Made alive with dancing symbol now to dance.

Laying out a scaffolding of logic,
Carving out the thinking face in lines of code,
He looks at me an image of my thoughts,
He looks at me an image of my play,
My play with words far more constrained,
By reams of logic spooling into chains,
To hold me in a puzzle and imprint,
My quizzing and tomfoolery - my burst of creativity.

Cooking up a spaceship,
Or rather tiny squares upon my screen,
To tweak the spicy nuts and bolts,
Then garnish with a splash of art,
Tinker tinker for the fun,
Perhaps I'll find it we'll just see.

Why not make the vastness of this age,
The information age a chessboard for the mind,
A racetrack built on hyperlinks and eons,
Of collective time - the toil of archivalists,
Why not test a naive lens upon the links,
To see how far this youthful sight will carry you between,
To take in fragments of a fact to spur you onwards to the goal,
Just time before the other finds the same.

A practiced fluency I've gained,
To walk in languages and symbols vast,
To follow steps of giants in the wake
Of history and its captivated minds.

Their fantasy and genius care to show,
In objects of reason borne in Greek script,
Wrapped up in varied meanings -
A model of computation and its simple alphabet.

Oh the winding spools of tape that coil upon the winds,
Drawn out beneath these marching machines -
Automata of the dreamy kind.

Optimising silicon dreams,
I hear the metal humming merry,
Crunching numbers yet not twice,
Moving fancy particles and forming formlessly,
Culminating to a blinking dream.

Dusting off an old classic,
That is to brush off virtual dust,
From a game I left half played,
Well really quite a bit less,
But now I found it,
Again and search each corner,
For what I missed last time.

Refactoring my olden lines,
I file them neatly into boxes,
Labelled clearer, cleaner, concisely,
A little here goes there,
Much can go for good and more,
Like purest puzzles every moment,
Warping shifting into line,
A pleasing buzz of brainwork -
Not too heavy on the cells,
But light enough to have me dialed.

A world of websites,
Biding until you enter in,
To windows flush past stoic links,
To easing shapes in warming light,
Great gradients!
Great lines understated,
Great logos, symbols, tactile sights,
This world so rich in meaning,
Rich in time and care and skill,
A world I knew but never in this sight.

Building blocks to heights above,
I write these laws on silicon slips,
Designed before and tweaked just right-
BUZZ~

Oh is that a fly I hear,
Come to dance about amidst my blocks,
To streak all over private towers,
O come to dance you secret bug.

Then terror turned to vex,
Hive on hive on hill on burrow!
THESE CRAWLING THINGS THAT FILL THE WORLD WITH NOISE,
BEGONE!

Alas, I careless dropped the eggs,
Down deep into my cement,
And now the towers hum,
Come debugger and the printing press,

We shall cast these out and polish jank until it sparkles.

Good old head scratching fun,
Glaring long and hard at lines laid bare,
Yet cryptic to their author still,
At least they've custom colours though!
...a poor consolation from a head too scratched,
Aha I have it! ...wait no I don't,
And to and fro my mind does spark,
And the old head-scratching fun,
Seems stretched beyond its welcome.

Shader dreams,
Like hot wax poured,
Folded at the seams,
As it pools on my screen,
It hardens as I deem,
Conceived by a script,
Hailing from numbers and machines...

I sit in another world,
The ground is neon,
The sky pulses rhythmic.

Geometric shadows,
Glorious in asymmetry,
Dance about from lighting forth,
They clothe the walls in splendour,
And point back to the source.

Computer Head with a heavy lean,
A croaking stool tucked far away,
In corners working noisily,
Tapping code and writing physics fast,
Drawing art with light-up mice in grasp,
Tumble to the kitchen now,
And lighting comes to fry a feast,
And strikes Computer Head to dance,
And watch him dance,
And smell the air,
The aromatic waft adraft,
Back to the stools and noisy screens,
Back to Computer Head with heavy lean.

Crafting words upon my screen,
What strange diction do I see?
Of public, private, void and true,
Of numbers devoured.
In jaws of brackets, yawning,
Snug against colons on the right,
A script to make the metal dream,

A script to make the metal dream.

Spinning cube upon my screen,
Your radiant geometry,
Writes smiles upon my face serene,
My hair is only half pulled out,
But now I watch you spin between.

Deciphering the songs of old,
The songs the ancient circuits chirped,
They orate great myth and furious fight,
In square waves and jagged might.

Tinkering around to make defective Pong,
I tap away and then survey,
The errors I begin to solve,
At last it's here,
A Pong half broken,
Along its lines of code at least,
It bears my fingerprints,
So I'm happy with this defective Pong.

Humbled by the written code,
I scratch my head in curious frustration,

Why won't you work?
Just run at last!
I cannot even bear to smirk,
I feel like I've been cast a clown,
The play is up my bubble burst,
I'm tapping out the searches fast,
But I'm drawing dry wells dryer still,
Maybe I should bore another?

I scratch my head in curious thought,
And let a missing letter catch my eye,
Yet its a frequent tune I hear,
For eight problems out of nine...
Stem from mistakes very much mine.

Fold the files within themselves,
Line them up on digi-shelves,
Write things out on digi-notes,
Draw a box to tick in time,
Organise the space to rhyme,
Try to track the talking tasks,
They whisper deep in warmer days,
I wish to catch them,
And form a digi-house to store them,
Brick by brick for my own workflow.

A soft glow lights the room,
Periodic jolts fire across the splayed open circuitry,
Pristine white folds into the crevices of the shaded cabinets before retreating like a receding tide,
It flickers ceaselessly and is all at once still,

"I think its fried"
"Yeah I think so too"
"Operations said something about a reactor meltdown and overclocking a thingy..."
"Bah! We'll just reboot him tomorrow, usually works a charm"

Computers sitting in my days,
Screens to hold maths, physics, code,
Keyboards to freeze my many words,
A mobile slab blasting tunes and plays,

And they sit there humming in my days,
Momentary corners filled in my abode,
With flashing lights to tell me loads,
Captivating info in the stalwart rays.

Installation adventures,
To tap commands into a box,
And watch the flowing symbols roll,
Telling epics of a ceaseless searching,
For files and files through thorny directories,
Till they stitch together the needed code,
And there it is: the fated program,
To let me draw some pixel peeps,
And maybe learn to make them walk,
In pixel ways along the screen.