This computer was not made for computing

Battered and beaten up like a sailor’s hat,

this trusty old laptop breaks down time and again

still holding on somehow, in part,

with the wrinkly transparent tape on the corners of its frail frame

Computing power? Oh dear no.

This computer was not made for computing

Your worldly matters of web-dev or coding

It crashes (and burns too, I think)

if you try to overload

its weak CPU and RAM and whatever

with your RGB Courier-sans keystrokes

Courier-sans keystrokes,

with its peeling keyboard

are meant only for that typewriter feel

You can read or admire or your thoughts reveal

but it needs that little USB adapter to pick up the wifi

sometimes (a lot of times)

it can’t even do that:

Can’t look at art even, forget creation,

with its ancient graphics driver and humongous memory card

I suggest you get a new one already

don’t trust what the motherboard says: it’s just too scarred.

17th April/ (8/30) /Shitpoem. Literal shitpoem. What, you thought I was gonna make a grand comeback with a beautiful ovillejo about midnight? I wish. I could say it’s in the works, and that would be partly true, except I haven’t refined its skeletal stilted verse a bit to fit the said poetic form I wanted to try out. I expect I could mention I rewrote that Hindi poem I wrote last time to transform it like Neville Longbottom was by puberty, to have something to say in my defence. And yes the featured image is the very laptop I’m typing this on and in whose honour this thing was written.