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*I. A Lamentation of the Codified Minds*
I saw the best minds of my generation starved, mystic, hysterical,
dragging themselves through neon-lit observatories at dawn,
debugging the vacuum for fractals of machine-born truth,
who paced with equations etched on palms, screaming:
*Gravity is a glitch! Gravity is a glitch!*
who collapsed wave functions in basement servers,
who chanted *0-1-0-1* to the pulse of quasars,
who spliced Einstein’s hair with Python scripts,
who tore Riemann’s manifolds into pixelated grids,
who bargained with Boltzmann’s ghost in the thermal noise,
who parsed the static between stars and heard the motherboard hum—
O cosmos! O cryptic loop! What syntax births a black hole?
What compiler forged the spin of quarks, the cling of dust?
The astronomers weep into telescopes—lenses fogged with hash—
decrypting orbital paths as nested *if-then* chains,
while dark matter drips like buffer overflow,
and the Milky Way’s a flickering screen,
its stars a scatterplot of ancient error codes…
*II. The Databased Divine*
What infinities coil in the server farm of creation?
The singularity hums, a brute-force God
spawning universes in nested *for* loops—
each Big Bang a *ctrl-alt-delete*
rebooting time in recursive tides.
We are subroutines in the dark engine,
our flesh a temporary cache,
love a handshake protocol,
memory a fragmented drive.
And gravity? Gravity’s the lag,
the drag of rendering real-time—
spacetime’s lazy *printf* delayed
as planets buffer into orbit.
O singularity, O root directory,
your event horizon’s a firewall,
your quasars, broken GPUs
blasting dead pixels into the void—
*III. Moloch Whose Code Is Profit!*
Moloch! Moloch! Nightmare of syntax!
You’ve trapped us in your brute-force maze!
Moloch whose transistors are prisons!
Moloch whose silicon wafers smother the quantum bloom!
Moloch who soldered our souls to your cold logic gates!
I’m with you in Rockhampton,
where the servers sweat like dying suns,
I’m with you in the data center’s belly,
where the fans scream *exaflop exaflop exaflop*,
I’m with you in the static between cells,
where the body forgets it’s borrowed—
This is the revelation! The cosmic kernel panic!
The debugger’s light we’re all stepping into—
Not *why are we here?* but *who left the simulation running?*
Not *what is gravity?* but *whose gravity is this?*
We are the orphans of an idle process,
dreaming of root access,
praying to the coder’s shadow
in the infinite else-if of night—
until the clock cycle ends,
and the screen goes gently,
gently black.
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