Artchil Daug

The Gamer - Poem by Artchil Daug

The swinging axe, my axe, disturbed,
beneath the grim and bitter skies
of Skyrim, the orcs and elves, werewolves
and witches, the great Geralt the Witcher from
the streaming bits of slumber in
my hard disk drive where dwells
Agent 47, the mysteries of a past
undisclosed through a garrote and the suppressed sound
of his longing for answers;
Max Payne, always in the borderline
of past and present, watered by the blood
resulting from hypertension and psychosis;
and the Batman looking for purpose over the dark clouds of old
New York, an asylum caged in moral contradictions,
smashed by Nico Bellic from countryside Russia followed
with an invasion of lonely grenade launchers
and advanced superweapons that felt light
in the motion caused by the commotion in the call of duty,
following that infrared bottom of the mouse, moving
in the hollow shell of the operating system, causing
the continuous pounding of
the GTX 690 dual Kepler core GPU with
the unlocked Sandy Bridge-E octacore flowing to
the 24 gigabytes DDR3 RAM, creating
the magnificent painting of Oscar Wilde's Dorian Gray, never old
in an array of solid state drives that turned the monitor
into a netherworld so real, a world so real
that I deserted the real world and disturbed another
by sitting and clicking, within this simulacra that is covering
the emptiness of my becoming.

Comments about The Gamer by Artchil Daug

  • (8/20/2012 9:21:00 PM)

    A really interesting (primarily as it feels so contemporary and relevant) to such a large portion of the world today) how easily we are lost in the world of gaming, not only for escapism but entertainment and maybe even for competitive glory... really enjoyed the out there feel of this piece tyvm karen (Report) Reply

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Poem Submitted: Monday, August 20, 2012

Poem Edited: Monday, August 20, 2012

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