The Bizarre Song of J. Gatsby Omar
Let us go then, you and me Where the 'froup is spread across the screen Like Cobain's thoughts spattered on a wall; Let us scroll, through certain, half-amusing posts The neverending roasts Of AOL trolls written, RE: Kibo And followups from rec.slang.masturbation: Threads that fester like a gangrenous infection Of non-existent reason To make you edit necessary files. . . Oh, do not ask, "which is it?" Let us connect, and make our visit. On the board the oldbies cringe and pine KILL/AUTHOR="Chagelstein" The cigarette smoke that sticks in particles to the screen The hazy fog that sticks in layers to the screen Reached up into the corners of my room Hovered about the books that sit unread Let fall upon its back the ash brushed from my keyboard Slipped by the candle, made a sudden swirl, And seeing it was four o'clock in the morning, Curled once about my head and made me cough. And indeed, there will be time For the pungent smoke that stinks up all my clothes, Congealing in sheets to the monitor; There will be time, there will be time To prepare replies that quantify the posts that you read: There will be time to killfile and create, And time for all the words and nights of fingers That type and drop a new post in your server; Time for you and time for me, And time for a hundred poor decisions And for a hundred fusions and re-fissions, Before the rupture of a heart and spleen. In the room the oldbies cringe and pine, KILL/AUTHOR="Chagelstein" And indeed there will be time To wonder, "Do I dare?" and "Do I dare?" Time to hit Ctrl-Y and quaff dispair With insecurity about my style and flair [They will say: "How his posts are all mundane!"] My expressions tired, my thesis dying slowly in the train Of logic irrefutable, but asserted with some cool disdain. [They will say: "But how his pride gives way to flames!"] Do I dare Disturb the Not-Cabal? In a buffer, there is space For visions and revisions which a keystroke can erase. For I have read them all already, read them all- Have read the crossposts, replies, original works; I have wasted half my life in starts and jerks; I know the voices silenced with an anvil's fall Beneath the outcry from another newsgroup. So how can I not lurk? And I have read the flames already, read them all- The regulars that fix you in an ancient anagram, And when I am formulated and compressed into a bit, When I am encrypted and encoded in a file Then what shall I post To justify the moments of my luser-hood? And how can I not lurk? And I have read the stories already, read them all- Fiction sublime yet filled with ten-cent words [but on examination, symbolic just to nerds!] Is it fear of obsolescence That precludes my thoughts' presence? Stories that stand solo, or part of larger work. And how can I not lurk? And what shall I post? Shall I say, I have sat lonely nights in my smoky room And watched the fumes that rise out of the ashtray and beer bottles, coffee cups, and such? I should have been an unwitting specimen, Rotting in some X Industries archive. And the Bobs, the gatherings, they sound so nifty! Filled with interesting people Meeting. . .talking. . .or getting laid, Groping on the floor, somewhere, so far away. Should I, after all the drinks and snackses* *[sic] Dare to shift the world off of its axis? But though I have read d.'s truths and tears, tears and tirades, Though I have seen my prose (grown slightly trite) refuted and shattered; I am no Vogelite, and here's no great matter: I have seen the moment of my attribution flicker, And I have seen the eternal Cavenewt hold my throat, and snicker, And to make a SSC, I was afraid. And would it have been worth it after all, After the replies, the followups, the jokes Among the regulars, among some mail from them to me, Would it have been worth a smile To have put away the matter for a while To have squeezed my emotions into a thread To move them toward some succinct catharsis To say, "I am Milton, come from the dead, Come back to amaze you all, I shall amaze you all"- If one, replying to something in the thread, Should mail: "This is not what we like at all, That's not bizarre at all." And would it have been worth it, after all, Would it be worth my while After the friendships and the gatherings and impromptu trips, After the beer, after the fights, after the dry emotion that lies densely in my core, And this, and so much more? It is impossible to post just what I mean! But if some inspiration threw my thoughts in patterns on the screen: Would it be worth their smiles If one, replying to something, or mailing me withal, And before *plonk*ing me, would say, "That is not it at all, That is not bizarre at all." No! I am not Paul Vader, nor was meant to be; I am an erstwhile lurker, one that will do to reply to a thread, post an SSC or two, A JPCA; no doubt a slimy pool of some genetic waste (or so they say), Willing, cautious, and still in the way; Full of much that's pretentious, but can't quite make the play, at times, indeed, almost a nuisance, Almost, at times, a fool. I'm at a loss. . .I'm at a loss. . . I shall read News with AOL for DOS. Shall I try to save a file? Will it crash my machine? I shall depend on helpfiles to understand what's on my screen. I have seen Homepages linking, each to each. I do not think any will link to mine. I have seen them archiving great stuff in droves Making rec.arts.prose look like a load of drivel, When the herd seems to post nothing that's not drivel. We have lingered in the corners of T.B. By brilliance and insights arduous to deduct 'Til angry 'froupers wake us, and we don't fail-to-suck. -Omar, the tentmaker - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - DRUMMOJG@vax1.acs.jmu.edu email@example.com "Love is a dunghill. . .and I am the cock that gets on it to crow." ----------------------------------------------------------------------------
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