{fb1000000Some poems what I have writ (sic). Don't bother criticising them, I know they're not much use. I only write them because I enjoy doing it.
I've been thinking that it may be a good idea to get an anthology of computer-related poems together, as computers are increasingly becoming a large part of our lives, and, as far as I know, there hasn't been one published yet. So, if, like me, you're a lay-poet, and have some material on computer-related issues (from any point of view — user, programmer, hacker, etc, and from any format — Arc, Mac, PC, Amoeba, ST, etc.) that you'd like published (and with any luck, paid for!), or if you'd be interested in publishing such a collection, then PLEASE GET IN TOUCH.
Or, if you're already getting together such a collection yourself, please get in touch (I have more stuff than that here).
Those that know me (or know of me) will be able to guess what (who) the untitled poem is about, and everyone else can keep their noses out of it.
I am :
Colin McEwan
11 Helen Way
Alexandria
Strathclyde
G83 9PJ [and Duncan are crap]
Colin McEwan
{n2
{fb1C00000Please, Mister Salesperson, Sell Me a RiscPC™
{fb1000000In an electrical store, which shall remain nameless (Suffice it to say that they're utterly shameless, and the sales staff have heads which are empty and roomy, but I can't say their names in case they might sue me). I watched the computers being put through their stuff and couldn't help thinking they all looked quite duff.
A Compaq™ was nursing it's faulty hard disc, and a Packard™ showed off all the strong-points of CISC by running a flight-sim, a frame every second, but at that very instant the Manager beckoned me over to look at his wonderful bargains and try to confuse me with technical jargon.
"This one's equipped with a Pentium™ chip, that's fifty-odd mega-hertz, sixty-four bits. Power beyond all your craziest dreams, PCs are great, they're fantastic machines! Sometimes, of course, they can go slightly funny, but you know what they say: You pays your money…"
I then made a joke about taking a RISC, And he said "Well, in that case, come here, look at this! It's the latest machine from those Macintosh™-makers, Those brave pioneers, those amazing ground-breakers! The technology's new, and so is the name." (But despite all the changes it still smelled the same)
Feeling the strain of this tiresome waffle, I wanted to see something not quite so awful. What I was seeking I hadn't seen yet, And, furthermore, I was willing to bet, That this manager's actual knowledge was scant, He left me no options: I started to rant…
"Have you got a machine with a nuttier flavour, A British computer with a built-in screen-saver and all sorts of widgits, and plenty of speed, which comes with a proper 3-pin-plug AND lead, and doesn't need too much of my hard worked-for cash and a casing which won't get a dent or a bash?"
"A machine with a friendly and pretty UI, and programs robust so they don't ever die. A desktop with textures and creamy-beige icons, and hundreds of easily-fittable add-ons. Graphics and sound which are really sensational and applications which ARE educational?"
"Something to use both at home and at work, And with something to kill any viri which lurk." The manager's lip drooped under his chin, but before he could speak I butted back in: "And don't talk all this Industry-Standardised dross, I want a machine which DOESN'T run DOS!!!"
"Power-Mac™ runs under CISC emulation, and Pentium™'s plagued with it's heat dissipation. Your prices are huge for the goods that you get, and the thing that I seek you've not shown to me yet. Excuse me for shouting and venting my spleen, But I need something prettier, smaller and green."
The manager sighed, and rubbed at his eyes, consulted his book (upon which he relies to provide him with prices and figures
