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


 

The Common Book

These short-swiped days of instant history,
of unsavoury times, of such effrontery;
a meme we fed before the hour had passed,
then called upon as eye witnesses:

‘How could you renounce, so easily betray?’
‘How many times did you turn your gaze?’
Under cross-examination you may fall apart,
prepare your statement, commit it to heart.

This way we now live, screening all calls,
beholding our phones is the new protocol:
a covenant with our electric prayer book,
nailed in our palm, is the first place we look.

Marriage Texts

no prob x
she looked off earlier xx
will be out for short time x
think she needs attention xxx
shes getting screwed
**she’s**
in head!! 😉 x
she comes home to it x
this me piecing it together xx
then heckles up 🙁 x
not in good place at m`o xx
HER!x
sorry best can do xxx
how did it go? x
She is worrying about u x
She is a good person xx
ah insecurity shows xx
testing again x
quite rightly x
u don’t want A to b an arse xx
you need to let her know xxx
do u have to ask? x
she is loved xx
we are all idiots x
we are all foolishly in love xx
stupidity steadfast x
love is also constant x

Button Therapy


The pushed-pushed
Lift-Shut-Now-Button,
[US-Eng: Elevator-Closure-Function];
pressed, but no more
electrical assurance
of any seal
of lift-shut avoidance,
now switched off,
under legislation,
some rights-to-access
codification:
Plus the kerbside
‘DONT WALK’
bright lights,
there to be poked,
under the Bill of Rights,
but now, not working,
not as useful,
one more gullible
Westerners’ placebo.


News story here