The Poet of Technology

Junked iambic song of love.

“Shock! Shock!”

Buried righteous skeleton.


Wept — “It’s not my fault,” The poet to the wall,
“Indwells a loving sympathy, seeking yearning symphony,
magic rhymes more worldly, than structured cosmic wind.”

Alas! Instead

jagged screams scrapping all that is holy —
every mother’s son;
any ancient wisdom,
all the work the sun;
has managed to do;
in brief millenium.

But, more,

short circuited transistor, holographic imagery,
artificial intelligence in the news,
round the clock satellite beams,
antihuman interface,
all the churches empty,
collecting dusty pews.

And, more

Transitional habitats sink in toxic fumes;
amid bureaucratic verbosity.
Earth — shaking — rock rolls
stoned, alone children; separate, puzzled, angry blooms —

With Whose

Plastic saviour will they all deny their family name,
forsake tradition, land of dream;
gather in uniformed security; stripped of Only: for —




Wept — “It’s not my fault,” the poet to us all.
“Release my loving sympathy. Search the ancient prophecies;
mystic runes more worldly, than our fractured sins.”