Anthem for P'wned Youth
Hooo ha! It's another icy cold cadaver of a morning and time to exhume another stupid update from the humourless barren wasteland of my featureless skull. Before I kick off, I'd just like to say I had a thoroughly enjoyable night at Evoke, so thanks to all the lovely people I saw and spoke to. I haven't seen some of you in ages, so twas great to catch up and I definitely intend to go to the next one and do some more exploring of this strange wide frightening world that lies beyond the frontier of my bedroom door.
This mornings update comes from the far future. It's a stone cold fact maaan that the extremes of human experience suffered by soldiers in various theatres of war have lead to the writing of some of the most moving and memorable poetry ever - about war. All of a sudden, soldiers realised they didn't have to write poems about flowers and rabbits and the love of a good women standing under a rainbow. Yuck! War poems generally tend to be more concerned with the psychologically scarring horrors of conflict, the loss of innocence in the face of inhumanity and the feeling you get when you're halfway through a conversation about cricket with the guy next to you when his head is suddenly machine-gunned off and lands thirty feet behind your trench and falls down a rabbit hole. This sort of unflinching honesty made many war poets very famous, unfortunately World War One also made most of them very dead, proving that being posted to the frontline during a war is a particularly bad time to consider a career in literature.
Sooo, let's quickly spin on from 1914 to the year 2142. I've been playing quite a lot of online PC game Battlefield 2142 which is almost exactly the same as World War One. Except that it's a computer game, it's set in the future and you can drive fucking huge robots which tred on people. It's also very hard to contract syphilis or trenchfoot from playing video games, I however have not only managed to pick up both, but have even dared to dream what it would be like if those computer generated fellows from space could and would write First World War style poetry. So please come join me for some more heartfelt crap and soon enough I'll think you'll agree, that this has been another exercise in complete and utter failure.
If I should die, think only this of me;
You have the right to be forewarned,
Your sudden white hot plasma death I guarantee,
Just as soon as I've respawned;
Through the city ruins, smoke, fire and snow,
A rocket launchers distant thud,
Sudden crash-landing flyer christens empty streets below,
With rain of metal, flames, glass and blood.
And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
As thoughts focused through a snipers sight,
Revenge driven, prepares headshot death from afar;
Memories, brain and bone, turned into fine red spray;
"Orbital strike your area!" then blazing streaks of light,
desend from heaven, turning all to fire and molten tar.
You love us when we’re winners, on a roll,
Snipers, turrets and mines camp enemy base.
You worship decorations; you believe,
large kill ratios redeem this war’s disgrace.
Medikits and ammo you resupply. You listen with delight,
By tales of dirt and giant robots fondly thrilled.
You defend our titan while we fight,
Defib' resurrect us when we’re killed.
You can’t believe that EU troops ‘retire’
When gatling cannon death breaks them, and they run,
Trampling teammates corpses-blind with blood.
Downstairs mother sits dreaming by the fire,
Hopes for I.T. career for computer-bound son,
As his simulated face is trodden deeper in the mud.
'Stop fucking dying U cretins!!!1' the Commander said,
Sat safe in his buggy behind the line.
Now the troopers he's cursing at most of are 'em dead,
Support and supplies fail to reach them in time.
'He's fucking retarded,' types L33T(underscore)Killer69 to UfukinSuk!
As they run for the flagpoint at maximum pace,
As soon as they reach it, more shitty luck,
As Commander oblivious, nukes them from space.
Towering majestic battlefield mech,
Chainguns apart weak human meat,
Stamping, striding, mechanised death,
You grind my skull beneath your feet.
The Medic tells us: 'When the boys come back,
'They will not be the same; for most have faced,
'Explosive death from demo pack,
'Or tank shells laying comrades to waste,
'Or mines, missiles, slit throats and worse,
'The forms of death are most diverse.'
'We're none of us the same!' the boys retort.
'For Sh4dowR3Ap3r a sniper throat-shot caught;
'Poor T3rm1nat0r and CyberWank;
'Crushed to death by friendly tank,
'TerrorMoose's fall twas quite severe.
'When his parachute failed to appear'
'NoseX's lag was quite obscene,
'So he put his fist straight through the screen,
'In this midst of hell and battle scarred,
'Fia5co's trying way to hard,
'Too drunk, too slow, of death too scared,
'Reaction time is way impaired,
'My usual story of war unfolds,
'Blasted to bits by 12 year olds.
Bugger!
Deary me! It's good to know I haven't managed to improve in anyway in my absence. If you were hoping for some borderline average material from me this year, then I'll refer you to the old Fight Club quote. "Where you are now you can't even imagine what the bottom will be like..." or maybe that should be "I want you to hit me as hard as you can." Either way works.
This mornings update comes from the far future. It's a stone cold fact maaan that the extremes of human experience suffered by soldiers in various theatres of war have lead to the writing of some of the most moving and memorable poetry ever - about war. All of a sudden, soldiers realised they didn't have to write poems about flowers and rabbits and the love of a good women standing under a rainbow. Yuck! War poems generally tend to be more concerned with the psychologically scarring horrors of conflict, the loss of innocence in the face of inhumanity and the feeling you get when you're halfway through a conversation about cricket with the guy next to you when his head is suddenly machine-gunned off and lands thirty feet behind your trench and falls down a rabbit hole. This sort of unflinching honesty made many war poets very famous, unfortunately World War One also made most of them very dead, proving that being posted to the frontline during a war is a particularly bad time to consider a career in literature.
Sooo, let's quickly spin on from 1914 to the year 2142. I've been playing quite a lot of online PC game Battlefield 2142 which is almost exactly the same as World War One. Except that it's a computer game, it's set in the future and you can drive fucking huge robots which tred on people. It's also very hard to contract syphilis or trenchfoot from playing video games, I however have not only managed to pick up both, but have even dared to dream what it would be like if those computer generated fellows from space could and would write First World War style poetry. So please come join me for some more heartfelt crap and soon enough I'll think you'll agree, that this has been another exercise in complete and utter failure.
If I should die, think only this of me;
You have the right to be forewarned,
Your sudden white hot plasma death I guarantee,
Just as soon as I've respawned;
Through the city ruins, smoke, fire and snow,
A rocket launchers distant thud,
Sudden crash-landing flyer christens empty streets below,
With rain of metal, flames, glass and blood.
And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
As thoughts focused through a snipers sight,
Revenge driven, prepares headshot death from afar;
Memories, brain and bone, turned into fine red spray;
"Orbital strike your area!" then blazing streaks of light,
desend from heaven, turning all to fire and molten tar.
You love us when we’re winners, on a roll,
Snipers, turrets and mines camp enemy base.
You worship decorations; you believe,
large kill ratios redeem this war’s disgrace.
Medikits and ammo you resupply. You listen with delight,
By tales of dirt and giant robots fondly thrilled.
You defend our titan while we fight,
Defib' resurrect us when we’re killed.
You can’t believe that EU troops ‘retire’
When gatling cannon death breaks them, and they run,
Trampling teammates corpses-blind with blood.
Downstairs mother sits dreaming by the fire,
Hopes for I.T. career for computer-bound son,
As his simulated face is trodden deeper in the mud.
'Stop fucking dying U cretins!!!1' the Commander said,
Sat safe in his buggy behind the line.
Now the troopers he's cursing at most of are 'em dead,
Support and supplies fail to reach them in time.
'He's fucking retarded,' types L33T(underscore)Killer69 to UfukinSuk!
As they run for the flagpoint at maximum pace,
As soon as they reach it, more shitty luck,
As Commander oblivious, nukes them from space.
Towering majestic battlefield mech,
Chainguns apart weak human meat,
Stamping, striding, mechanised death,
You grind my skull beneath your feet.
The Medic tells us: 'When the boys come back,
'They will not be the same; for most have faced,
'Explosive death from demo pack,
'Or tank shells laying comrades to waste,
'Or mines, missiles, slit throats and worse,
'The forms of death are most diverse.'
'We're none of us the same!' the boys retort.
'For Sh4dowR3Ap3r a sniper throat-shot caught;
'Poor T3rm1nat0r and CyberWank;
'Crushed to death by friendly tank,
'TerrorMoose's fall twas quite severe.
'When his parachute failed to appear'
'NoseX's lag was quite obscene,
'So he put his fist straight through the screen,
'In this midst of hell and battle scarred,
'Fia5co's trying way to hard,
'Too drunk, too slow, of death too scared,
'Reaction time is way impaired,
'My usual story of war unfolds,
'Blasted to bits by 12 year olds.
Bugger!
Deary me! It's good to know I haven't managed to improve in anyway in my absence. If you were hoping for some borderline average material from me this year, then I'll refer you to the old Fight Club quote. "Where you are now you can't even imagine what the bottom will be like..." or maybe that should be "I want you to hit me as hard as you can." Either way works.