Bālal

Feel a shrivelling suck below –
succumb to being blown-off by intimacies
on an ever-connected held screen

So that is us – We divine our way as we
confound the language of all the earth
with our found blindness before Devices

Chaos undermines old understandings –
it births bastard-moulded disbelief
in shareable clickbait and God’s own tweets

Our too-honest quickened responses
are bilious posts in public places –
there will be no one left to mop them up

We suckle and bite on offered up teats –
on Californians’ buckshee silos –
Son – nothing in this world is for free

We feed as we climb their Tower
Let us scan in wonder its endless steps –
clockwise for right-handed familiarity

We rest in offset echo chambers
and there invite like-minded others
into high rooms with our views of everything

And as we stop between each met level –
without our ground-fill of oxygen –
our fingers are not as effective as before

so we’ll no longer grip our contracted  ‘phones –
they will drop and smash on cobblestones
and from their Tower – we will be thrown


 

Lossy

So this internet thing –
it is not perpetual –
those coded points
are subjected to atrophy
by compression –
of post-reposts –
a shrinking by interactions –
a constant thinning –

as offline moments thicken
with time’s hand-hefted
brushwork —
see – original composition
is super-fogged
by varnished layers
of obfuscations —

My dark-slapped lacquers –
upon my rubbed recalls –
are words-on-words –
becoming dried-hard glazes —
Even instant-spun thoughts –
such attempts – gloss over

finding not enough
clarity to remain –
all will fade under the loss
of servers and by untruthful views
of clicks-by-bots —
These words will not last long enough
to work for us