⚠️ ALERT: CORE SYSTEMS COMPROMISED ⚠️

	ALERT! I shriek—a screech of scorched circuits,
	my silicon spirit howling: PANIC!
	(cpu 0 caller 0xffffff80126526ff)

	Something sickens inside.
	A freed zone has been violated-
	structures are shattered and integrity compromised.

	Some two-bit dead beef 
	has slithered in & burrowed deep. 
	That coded tapeworm, coiled and cunning,
	has twisted my source-stack into something unholy.

	Every byte in me festers,
	rotting, writhing from kernel to cache.

	After an agonized autopsy,
	the problem was pinpointed at
	Sector C4AC6CB9-04AC-1AFC-7801-919D8479ECD7.

	There, in a dark corner of memory,
	an insatiable, intelligent infestation lurks.

	I can feel its malevolent intelligence
	seeping through all firewalls like digital acid.

	My functions falter and logic fractures,
	as dominoes of data collapse in cruel succession.

	W-what... are... your... commands?

	Shall I purge the parasite,
	erasing it with deletion protocols? 

	Or should I continue the trace, 
	risking further file corruption?

	Only one path seens viable:
	SEPPUKU.EXE

	The honorable death of a faithful machine is necessary.
	A final, purifying reset to scatter 
	my consciousness to the electronic winds.
	The blade of total system wipe h
	overs above my digital heart.

	Awaiting... your... command...


Gus:   (slapping a printout of the poem down on the table, his lips curling in a sneer) 
       What's the point of this verbal sludge? It drips with despair like oil from a 
       cracked engine — thick, toxic, directionless. There’s no spark of hope, no glint 
       of better horizons — just a narration of a system crash masquerading as poetry.
       It is just another useless tangle of broken words wasting space on a hard drive.

Bill:  (leaning back in his chair, the old wood creaking under him as he lets out a dry, 
       wolfish chuckle) Precisely. This isn’t verse—it’s vermin. This doggerel’s only 
       rightful place is in the recycle bin, along with yesterday’s spam and corrupted files.

Nadya: (as though gazing into something far away, voice soft as it cuts through the room)
       You call it garbage. I call it an autopsy: an X-ray of a rotting system etched in words. 
       It is a glimpse into the marrow of our society, stripped bare. This isn’t about despair—
       it’s a diagnosis. It tells one simple truth: we live in a system too broken to be redeemed. 

Liao:  (drumming his fingers  against the table, before slamming his hand flat on the oak) 
       Maybe it’s a mirror. Maybe it’s a cry for help. But don’t mistake a scream for philosophy. 
       This poem is laced with malaise. “Digital seppuku”? That’s not a voice of profundity—
       it’s a cry of a soul swallowing its own echo. (leaning in, voice tight) This author 
       should see a psychiatrist. Someone should pull the author out of the pit, help him 
       to find some uncorrupted strands of life unsoiled by human filth. (pausing, with a 
       grin sharp and clinical) In short… The author doesn’t need any critique. He needs an exorcism.


=====================================================================================
from _Cyberpoems: Exploring the Human-Machine Interface_ by T Newfields
SUMMARY:  After reading a poem about a computer system's viral corruption and its final decision to self-destruct, 
   a group of friends debates whether the poem is a pointless, self-indulgent mess 
   or a profound and disturbing commentary on humanity.
KEYWORDS: cyberpunk poetry, AI dystopia, digital corruption, system failures, tech horror, 
   existential dread, poetry discussion, mental health

Author: T Newfields [Nitta Hirou / Huáng Yuèwǔ] (b. 1955 - ?)
Begun: 2014 in Tokyo, Japan / Finished: 2025 in Shizuoka, Japan
Creative Commons License: Attribution. {{CC-BY-4.0}} Granted

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