The instrumental music of the mind
The plucked strings of guitars, the air that sings
Echoes in the caves of memory ring
The sea of life on Dover beach, the sighs
Do not think the mind is made of bytes
Electric currents, shocks that kill the eyes
Other Hitlers play and Jesus die
We forget the depth the height the light
We are not screens we’re strings that must be plucked
We are the notes that swirl and sing ,combine
We are not notations on straight lines
We’re the shingle feeling how tides suck
Computers’ rhythms are too straight for real life.
Computer man it’s time to meld or die
How my heart sings 