It’s dark in here

It’s dark in here… did you hear that? I know there’s something here. I can see it, can’t you?

It’s dark in here
But only for the camera
I can see what’s in here, oh yes
The shifting, grotesque figures in the air;
The eyes, the eyes, over in the corner

Turn the lights on and they’re gone
It’s not the same now
But they’ll be back, oh yes
As sure as sunrise
As sure as night falls
Heavy, like that thud – didn’t you hear it?
I’m sure it came from over there.

It’s light in here
But the dark’ll be back
And I’ll see what’s in here, oh yes
I’ll see.

The Deepest Dark

[Poem] In the deepest dark of the night…

In the deepest dark of the night
When you’re all alone
It reaches

Games for the Computer Children

Games for the Computer Children: a poem by Keith M. Survell.

Here’s another poem I found from my poetry class. Enjoy.

Games for the Computer Children

  1. First find an ignorant user.
    Crash. Stop working for a month.
    Then come suddenly back to life.
    Learn how computer myths are spread.
  2. Watch a user install anti-virus software.
    Let them feel safe all winter.
    Then erase all of their files.
    Learn how software companies survive.
  3. Learn the Internet dance. Follow the
    Hyperlinks. Glut your eye on garish
    Pages. Follow the links back home.
    Art is sweeter than honey.
  4. Take a virus. Let it into your system.
    Whatever program tries to run,
    Crash it. You are learning what
    Viruses are for.
  5. Cut off the network: ISP strike.
    Try 250 free hours: junior finds daddy’s
    Credit card. Max it out.
    The “free hours” were only bait.
  6. Plug your mouse into the box.
    Set a password on the screen.
    When a stranger tries to log in,
    Teach him the computer always wins.
  7. When you are big, hack the mainframe.
    Win, and you feast on information.
    Loose, and you sleep in a prison
    All winter long, next to “Bubba.”
  8. When you have learned all the games
    Lay your fingers on the keys.
    Knowledge, quoth the computer, is power.
    “Press any key to continue…”

Ode to my Computer

Ode to my Computer: A Poem by Keith M. Survell.

I wrote this a while ago, back in a poetry class in college. I found it the other day, and figured I’d share it with the world.

Ode to my Computer

Thirty-odd years of research and development
Went into making it what it is today.
Precision technology, assembled
From the far corners of the Earth.

In some factory in Taiwan,
Countless faceless nameless workers
Inspect your heart, your brain
And all your limbs.

From rocks and sand and blistering heat
Came the silicon upon which it is built.
Ores of tin and iron, melted into copper and steel,
Make up the rest of your structure.

I wonder, sometimes, at how it was designed.
Some engineer sitting at his desk,
Tracing connections on paper that will one day
Be molded into silicon, at a million times smaller scale.

What an engineering marvel! What a technological triumph!
Circuits too small to be seen, mass-produced,
And sent around the world. How many other nameless twins
Does my computer have, locked away in some dark office?

I can remember all of its predecessors, primitive as they
Seem now. Back then, they were “state of the art,”
Fleshed in heavy steel frames and plastic covers.
Now they’re paperweights.

Bigger and better, faster and cheaper.
They sure don’t make ‘em like they used to!
Now, just a little touch of static
Is Death.

Power in, power out. AC to DC, 12 volts steady.
Its innards rumble, a familiar sound to me.
How much of my life have I spent
With my fingers poised on these plastic keys?

What wonders and miracles have come forth from this screen?
What noble purpose can I put this machine to now?
Who would have guessed, at age 10, that I would
Make a living at playing games?

Pop a CD in, and I can make music.
Click at the keys, and I can write poetry.
Point at the screen, and I can create art.
Talk to it, and it talks back!

Chips, cards, sockets and slots.
Adapters, modulators, ports and peripherals.

Beautiful, colorful wires and circuit boards,
All hidden behind the same beige face
That every computer wears. Like the people that
built them, computers are faceless.

Hidden in its heart
Is a treasure trove of information.
Nothing but bits and bytes, to it.
Only through me can they have meaning.

Forever outdoing itself,
This is more than a faceless machine.
This computer
Is mine.


Man: A poem by Keith M. Survell.

In the early days, man worked with nature.
In the middle ages, man worshipped nature.
In the late ages, man works against nature.
But he doesn’t want to.