Two parody-poems upon a BSOD in The Amalgamated Aggromulator

THE SONG OF BLUE-SCREEN SOLOMON

Behold, thou art not fair, Blue Screen; behold, thou art not fair; thou hast snake’s eyes within thy locks: thy hair as is a pair of goats, their horns hopelessly locked on Mount Gilead.

Thy teeth are as a flock of sheep that wolves have eaten, their wool beyond washing; whereof every one bore twins, that no wolves missed dessert among them.

Thy lips are as a thread of bloody scarlet, and thy speech is the same old thing: thy temples are like chunks of my own brain matter caught within thy locks.

Thy neck is like the tower of Babel builded for a jape, whereon there hang a thousand lost data clusters, all hopes of honest men.

Thy two breasts are like two young roes that are twins, which feed on each other in cannibal carnage among the lilies.

Until the day break, and the shadows fade away, I will get me to the mountain of retyping, and to the hill of pointless detours into other applications for backup.

Thou art not fair, Blue Screen; there is no point in thee.

A TIRED WRITER REGARDS A BLUE SCREEN

I hope that I will duplicate
the thoughts that fate relieved me of,
for they are not just dry debate,
they are the fumblings of my love.
Not happy ego made me write,
nor bitter war fought bitter loud,
but looking for the unforced right
on which my head could rest unbowed.
Against this, though, the weary cross
to talk of which would be a bore -
the sagging urge to take the loss
and not to push it anymore.
A hero’s vow would please my mind,
but lies would taste ill on my breath:
sometimes new finger-life I’ll find,
sometimes I’ll take the early death.