Silver blotches on my wireframe,
ozone punctures, overcast lobes,
a patchwork of entities
craving attention,
sucking on the spirals,
nibbling the gray.
Feckless youths know
naught of these
troubles, they appear
to them like hay
in the night sky –
distant & distracting.
But, I tell you,
one day I will scan
the imps
from my system,
delete all entries,
pop the chips out of
my crippled cortex,
spin them thrice,
and sideways – then
blast them all from
peripheral vision,
and into
abstract oblivion,
where all
phatasmata
should go
to die.
© Milana Vujkov, Niche & Chips, 2010
Poets, Mavericks & Prophets 