And the tag of this post is “bad poetry”.
Because, seriously, I am a non-native speaker that can’t even rhyme as that would reveal ugly things about my grasp of the English pronun… pronoun… speakin’ out thing.
Still, sometimes a story or an idea bubbles up, and won’t go down except when written down. The spark this time was a pretty and profound cyborg girl in a page of Dresden Codak; the idea fled gibbering to quite different realms from there, but for some reason the “narrator” of this bit stayed female.
* * *
My first life I was a scientist
In a white coat, in an ivory tower
Locked in because the world outside
Was madness, idiots and fools
And my domain was beauty they would never understand.
I grew up, a dancer, a prancer,
I grew old, hobbling, limping,
I grew rather angry biology was the boss of me.
My second life was from an accident
My heart of flesh was gone, I was gasping
My new heart of iron, was equally red,
And pumped blood much better, I smiled,
Steel eyes in bone sockets, I was better than before.
So much has been replaced of me
Only my old brain remains, but now
Iron fingers, silicon chips, shelve even that cylinder.
My third life was a choice: I could have
Flesh as before, but better, not an animal
But an organic deathless machine — or then
No flesh, but silicon, plastic and steel,
Computers within as already among; and I took the second.
Serpent cables slither off my back,
And with a graceful flourish I rise,
Off the couch, plastic girl with a perfect mind.
My fourth life was long, full of thought,
Stars revolving round me, ground beneath me,
My emotions the same but calm, transmuted
A human being no more, maybe, but a sentience
Post-flesh, post-cyborg, a computer full of love, I was.
At times my eyes were a second away,
At times time slowed down for me,
And never I knew boredom before these long years after the Sun.
I have seen millennia go by, I have laughed,
I have guided children, and wept at their graves,
(Had wings, and scars, and moments of doubt)
I have loved, and been loved, and felt kisses
Curious, tender, digital, plastic and obscene
Thus content, I cease; not pass on, but die, content with my life.
White coat, red iron heart, flesh or plastic
Thinking feeling machine, all the same,
With a sigh I slip away, leaving my memories to you.