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A surrealist poem by Joyce, where realities, dreams and painting mix and merge.

Inside the screen the stairs
were a radioactive blue
leading up to a bright world
that made the chips behind my eyes ache
beneath the texture maps
of marble and granite I visualised
the dancing numbers,
the machine language of creation
ones and zeroes defying
flesh and blood to last longer

at the top of the steps
I opened the gleaming door
causing my avatar to fall
to an untimely death in bubbles of hot lava
for the third time that morning
I hit the reset button
and waited for the main menu to appear
hypnotised by the blankness
I almost missed the first beam of light
and then another.
an image was loading
slowly filling the screen
a chin an eyebrow
disconnected pixels
merging like plasma
into a picture of my own face

in the background I expected to see
the brown couch
the Van Gogh reproduction, the familiar
crack in the plaster – but not so
I pivoted and scrambled to my feet
to face the threatening forest
thick with shadows and distantly piercing cries
the game controller
slick with sweat
fell from my trembling hands
and as I bent to retrieve it
the corner of my vision filled with light
the sun beckoning from above the canopy
but no rope ladder dropped from the sky
no portal appeared in a tree trunk
no trapdoor opened in the damp earth
I stood very still
waiting with eyes closed
so that I became attuned
and the sounds of the forest knew
that now they could reach me.

©Joyce Yarrow

Pic from Net.

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