Atari launched a bright yellow superstar
inside maze of chunky graphics;
a bestseller for the eighties.
That chomping mouth wanted it all,
fame, fortune, and the yuppie lifestyle
but ghosts were on his tail,
blue and pink phantoms
that wouldn't be contained in glassy television.
Scores went up
into the nineties; PlayStation landed
a kick-ass female.
She could run, jump, climb and somersault
while raiding tombs in six hour stints.
She created shift patterns for us;
our hands got sweaty, moulded
plastic controls. Fingertips could wear down
after too long.
We had a tornado spin from Crash Bandicoot.
We learned stealth from Solid Snake, tapped in rhythm
with PaRappa the Rapper
until worlds were expanded.
They programmed digital rain, life-like skins
in new century. A Call of Duty for Xbox,
war, blood, guts and gore.
First person shooters
with surround sound; every crime and fantasy available
to buy, and FIFA might keep you in for weeks.
Now our games are virtual reality, hyper-reality
a long way from those days of blips and beeps
and Space Invaders.