Well, I don’t know where most of these poems come from.
Maybe a few have been written by characters in a hypertext novel I wrote back in the nineties. It’s archaic now but some characters live on.
Silver and Rookie mostly pad about in a manga forest where teabags swing in trees.
Or they sail their dinghy, tossed in pixels, incarnating while they can. Silver creates the images. Rookie writes the words.
But if you think these poems are more likely dreamt up by a couple of old farts in a nook in their smoky Hebridean cottage then you could be right. Fictional fiction-makers are mutable.
Or in a C-Suite bathroom in a tower in LA or Shanghai. Relief from relieving the world of futurity.
From that early work…
‘If her eyes had been open she would have seen across to where the city rose like a phantasm of ice, its purple zomes and domes sparkling under the westering sun.’
Was that where’en we met, then?
I saw a girl licking her iPhone
on the tray of her wheelchair.
It was better poetry
than anything here.