The Human
Condition In Retrospect
by Tony Sims (Copyright, 1999)
Angus
Antipathy lost his keys
Searched for them vainly on hands and knees
Looked in the cupboards, shelving and lairs
Crawled all about the flooring and stairs
But the keys, it seemed, were no longer around
And despite all his searching, they could not be found
This was not a problem, except
His home was a bunker, defensively set
With thick screens and bolts, seamless entire
Double dead locks and concrete, from his desire
To keep all the maddening, eddying throng out
No sound could escape, so no point to shout
This was not so crucial, as yet
A computer was programmed, parameters set
To deal with the interest and debt every day
And run self-correcting, he liked it that way
It ran the whole house without human hand
Indeed, from its running, human keystrokes were banned
This was not so vital, except for a flaw
In Angus’ planning, not noticed before
It all functioned perfectly, his comfort zone
He lived unmolested, supremely alone
But his keys were quite lost, I think I have said
And so he has starved. Angus is dead.
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A Small Point.
by Tony Sims (Copyright, 2003)
Not Euclidian.
For while the position is fixed, it is yet,
For sure, not of no size, but set
Of small, quite real proportions,
Which natural sight distortions
Render as black as jet,
Or obsidian.
Definitely not illusional.
For the point is real enough, is seen
Fastly attached to my computer screen,
Blocking a like sized point of arrowed light,
Shot from the circuit deeps, towards my sight.
What power has the poo of an insect been!
Unless I am delusional.
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