It's about Alan Turing, the genius who broke the nazi's enigma code and is credited with being the creator of computing.
FOR
ALAN TURING
His
was a flannel shirt infinity,
built
on tweed jacket equations
that
formed in his head, on the cycle rides,
across
the soot streaked snow
that
gentled the outlines of the bomb sites.
He
had served with passion,
when
numbers on a chalk board
were
the only things not rationed.
Blind
eyes had been turned to his difference,
as
he strove to break the unbreakable ciphers,
back
when he had a value.
The
world had contracted since then,
become
straight laced with no place
for
brief encounters in public lavatories,
and
they meant to shame him.
Their
heterosexual hegemony locking difference out.
He
could see an off/on future
of
zero to one and back again,
but
the apple is in his hand.
He
knows he will bite into
its
shiny, poisoned skin
and
that will be that.
His death was a huge loss to humanity. I still do not think this poem is in it's final form.
I leave you with a sad song: Bauhaus Chair by The Nits.
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