Data Crunchers II - IV
Inside the computations
there’s an assimilation of the
very self-ness of self;
it exposes corruptions in record sets.
This taking-in of data,
A huge and soundless harvesting-up of it all:
then wheat in the mill –
the coarse data put into the press,
a sort of something-out-of-nothingness,
a newness computed outwards
through refinement and crunch
and the alchemies of meaning:
of the communicative
via a medium.
“Some nights, I
data-crunching out meaning,
the files of my life
(knowing some to be corrupted),
trying to sense, again,
the original hard-coding,
feeling out again for the symmetry
on which an elaborate artifice was built:
through the film of code,
a moving shadow of reality.
This separate world captured
an intangible Rosetta Stone
pulled out from the earth,
dusted down in
its great immensities and precisions of
detail and cypher.
At a distance to them,
we are holograms of reality,
There are the deep-downings
their increasing reachings
and memories’ memories – these infinity mirrors
of content out there: located
within the endless refraction of subsections,
the folders within folders,
Metadata of metadata
seeks itself in reinterpretation; is
liable and exposed to be plumbed,
and then restored, replicated, re-rendered.
This, embedded and low-lying in the
tentacularities of cyber warfare,
has disappeared into
its silent battle-fronts.
Random access memory:
“They are rooms of one entire skyscraper
That know not one another
Or how they hold their construct together–
This builds upwards and outwards,
Its wholeness recontextualises itself
Contiguously and continuously.
Building blocks of data
Fissure in a collective memory.”
Armies of spies and vigilant rogues out there:
out in the great
shadow-depths of the internet,
the forest has ears, and sublimated in a
hive-minded, near-perfect recall,
that trawls and trawls,
deep fakes sit in wait.
Tuning and retuning as the frequencies frisson
at great distance; and
knowledge amasses passively.
Remember the data wiped and buried; then,
like a man technically dead,
restored and returned into being, it was
excavated, and resurrected:
the separation-space of being
gone but not gone,
“dividing being and le néant.
Revising and revisiting these files of my life as they are
recontextualised and transmuted
(some perhaps forever corrupted).
Much information in me to be repurposed
out there in the near-perfect recollections
webbing and webbing throughout the ethernet,
an untrackable tangle of jungle.
An error of rendering is inherited
in the transfer between two systems
somewhere out there.”
both liberated and walled in
by the language
that is this facilitator and conduit,
the un-locker and limiter of meaning:
connotation integrates imperfectly
as the numbers – which know more than they
will say, their content encrypted
and compressed – are crunched – become
minced into metaphor.
Born in Dublin in 1988, Peter Donnelly’s first collection, Photons, was published by Appello Press in 2014. Following its publication, playwright Frank McGuinness commented that "Peter Donnelly already shows he has a strong imagination; indeed, a savage one presents itself on occasion when the beautiful and brutal confront and confound each other." His second collection, Money Is a Kind of Poetry, was published by Smokestack Books in 2019; it has been described as “a meditation on contemporary alienation and the processes by which every new technological advance seems to increase our isolation from each other, and the more connected we are the less we appear to know ourselves.” He is currently working on a third collection.
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