My last text seems to be the last
One of my beating heart.
There’s no response, why did I send
That expectation on such a desperate errand?
I wish that when I hear my mobile ping
For once it would my blood make sing
And lay to rest this tragic sense
I have of having wasted Love’s first shoots
In the frost of her silent reproof.
Today I bought a brass snail as a gift with a tape inside of it,
which measures by both metric and imperial means.
But my feelings are too complicated to quantify in either,
so, it’s just as well that I bought it for my brother!
Even then I could not decide for which one, or what festivity?
The snail will trail its tail as I mark my passing on
out of certainty into the rude beyond.
The snail’s head draws out the tape within.
I just hope that mine is similarly attached
to the rule of my digestive tract.
The imprimatur of the past is stamped upon the now
and maybe by assessing it we can attempt to unearth how.
Periods have their parallels like the phases of the moon,
waves of insanity crash upon humanity like a full blown loon.
Decades echo down the years as the planet burns,
revolving passages of grief from which nobody learns.
The nation struggles with inflation, industrial strife and crime,
civil unrest, disillusionment, racism and warfare in our time;
dictators flourish everywhere as liberal values buckle.
The only lingua franca the assault rifle and the knuckle.
While England’s finally proud and gay in Nigeria you get stoned
for the love that dare not speak its name, for which once Wilde atoned.
In Mountbatten’s fearful wake nuclear armies bake across a border
drawn by colonial rats fleeing a sinking ship bereft of order.
As Europe strives to aggregate we drift off into the blitz
and Rwanda beckons for the refugees who seek our midst.
Tempus fugit and by God it fugits now!
Computers can be a boon, or they can be a bane
when they fail to cooperate again and again.
RAM’s all well and good in its place
but when you can’t import files from PC to Mac
they prove to be an utter disgrace.
The grief involved in error messages
is fearfully hard to describe.
And yet we must tolerate their bytes
in order to survive.