The Cold

This is a tale that I have told

To Hampshire students young and old

Who wish to know of days of yore

What at their College came before

And wanting to their minds inspire

That such sweet things – for good or ill –

Can still be done at sour Shire

That their adventures too shall fill

The hearts and minds of fresh-faced lads

Or, failing that, of undergrads

I give them all, both young and old

The story of that man, The Cold


Some Hampshire students, nothing more

Kids with laptops, kids all bored

Were in their mod, spread on the floor

Wasting time on message-boards

A girl there was, with glasses thick

On What-It-Means-To-Be-A-Jew

A girl there was, with bright pink hair

On Squee-But-I’m-An-Otaku

A guy there was, in hoodie black

On I’m-A-Goth-And-So-Can-You!

A guy there was, with chest all bare

On 4ch- oh, Rules 1 and 2


From time to time they’d find a gem

Of comedy or lore

And this they’d share between them

All on the selfsame chore

A cosplay kid, a macro’d cat

Some well-trolled drama, this and that

To lurk was easy, fun, and cheap

And needed no sowing for to reap


They were alone, together

In quiet soft and sweet

The goth-lad in particular

Felt his life incomplete

He wasn’t doing anything

He wasn’t getting-done

And for fifty grand a year, my friends

You have to have some fun


He came across a story

Down in Deep Internet

That captured his attentions

A curious vignette

A kid in Vermont’s highest hills

Had spotted some strange man

In a cemetery, standing still

From dawn to dusk’s long span

He was dressed as for a heavy rave

He was not very old

The kid offered his name; He turned

And called himself The Cold

He stood there like a statue

An angel, or a ghost

The kid went home and dialed up

And to the net did boast


And here most cyber-stories

Would in their way conclude

With bumps or allegories

All most charmingly rude

But this brief tale was kept alive

It did not 404

Within a week, another soul

Had seen The Cold once more

It was much the same story

Vermont; beside a grave;

A raven-haired man, his skin all wan;

And dressed as for a rave

The Cold he named himself, and said

But very little more

He liked to stand among the dead

What a goth! they said. Hard-core!

From there the thread continued

He was sighted here and there

In cemeteries across the state

People would stop and stare

It came about that goths devout

Would seek The Cold to find

This Hampster, sitting in his mod

Found himself so inclined


He told the story to his friends

They balked and laughed and joked

As one a look came to their eyes

A will had been evoked

This was a thing of which they’d boast

When they had all grown old

That day when they had sought that ghost

Known only as The Cold


They knew little about him

Wherever could he be?

In Vermont: that they could infer

By a gravestone: certainly

They made a list of every place

Where Vermont lay its dead

They’d have to go to each of them

Who knew where The Cold tread?

They piled into the Subaru

Owned and driven by the otaku

The goth, the Jew, the /b/tard too

They stopped for gas, and then went to


They came to a cemetery

They stopped to look about

There was no goth-man to be seen

They got back to their route

They started with the nearest

And then they ranged far

Who knew how The Cold moved about

They were glad to have a car

They searched all day and into dusk

They went home by the moon

When daylight burned, the crew returned

A nerdy-ass platoon

They set foot on more hallowed ground

Than any common priest

They stopped for gas; they skipped all class

Their will only increased


After three days with nothing shone

Two hundred miles north

While walking through a row of stones

A scream it echoed forth

It came from out the otaku

It was more of a squee

They found her there, and her pink hair

Turned pinker in her glee

For standing there before her

As if a myth of old

(One dressed for an industrial club)

Was, without doubt, The Cold


He was all as had been promised

Standing there stock-still

His skin so fair, his raven hair

His presence like a chill

They called to him: Are you The Cold?

He turned and once did nod

The goth this creature did behold

Like the naked face of God

Their task complete, their life replete

With Glory for all time

They stood there, straight as stalks of wheat

Dumb as a brace of mimes

What would they do, now they had found

That which they sought to find?

How else could their triumph be crowned?

How else their deed enshrined?


It was the smiling Jewish girl

Who spoke up for the band

Want to come to Hampshire? she asked

Reached out, and took his hand

Without a pause, without a word

He nodded, did The Cold

He took the back seat, as preferred

And back to school they rode

The /b/tard asked him questions

The goth was too in awe

He spoke without inflection

The otaku did d’awwwww


He followed them into their mod

In their common-room he stood

He never ventured to the quad

Nor deigned to drop his hood

He stood there like a mighty oak

All day, and then all night

Nobody saw him move, not once

From his lofty, gothy height

He spoken only when spoken to

His face was blank as stone

Not even let the otaku

Try to get him alone

He didn’t eat, he didn’t drink

Just over them did loom

They didn’t know just what to think

Of this man in their room

Another day went by. By then

The mystery had grown

But they had work to do, and so

They left him quite alone

The four of them sat on the floor

Laptop, and then Online

They did much as they’d done before

The Cold he didn’t mind


When they awoke on the next morn

The Cold was nowhere found

They wondered if he’d flown away

Or sunk into the ground

They wandered around campus

Out looking for their charge

They had no notion what commotion

Could come with him at large

Before too long they passed a friend

A gamer, very dear

He said, goth guy? About yea high?

Not many words to hear?

I saw him in the parking-lot

I offered him a ride

He was going to a graveyard

I told him, get inside

I drove him up to Burlington

And dropped him by a grave

He gave me fifty bucks for gas

I left; he didn’t wave

The four friends they did stare at him

He shrugged, and wandered off

He didn’t think too much of it

And he had things to boff


The four could only stop and think

Of what had come to pass

But not for long; they had a bong

They needed to hit before class

And that is the story of The Cold

A man like you or I

I’ll carry his name until I’m dead

Will he be there when I die?

And this is a story of Hampshire

A place with much amiss

And the glories which can occur

When you live ridiculous

-Div IV, 2011


~ by davekov on 26 April 2011.

One Response to “The Cold”

  1. very good piece of poetry i enjoyed reading this iam from hamspshire myself portsmouth from kevin keep up the good work.

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