I haven’t updated in a while, so here is a brand new poem for you to decide if you like it or not. It’s called Should I Be Happened Upon.
You have measured out our time with small gadgets
That begat even smaller gadgets used to communicate
Your 17 ideas tonight and my 24. I am the new wave
Of witches converting Christian men to curious ones
With my millenia of magic to disprove your faith
So I can then dissolve your marriage. You have read
Our emails again and since then they’ve invented ten
More gadgets to get across your 28 ideas to my 100.
You just learnt how to lock your home screen and your
Computer is now so old it has become your ancestor
And they have buried it, coffin shaped, underneath artisinal
Soils. You have noticed the melting ice ploughing
And undulating through the South, the Midlands, and now the North West
It’s a new age, baby. We have grown beyond the means
Of a new friendship with speed; the gadget they
Just invented takes our salience and realises it.
The heatwave is come and the clouds make a fuss of
Being ushered backstage. You are now a Pavlovian response
When I hear the zing of your 45 ideas and my 32.
The new gadget pops and I know you. You have the smarts to think for
The two of us, so do it now: give me your reflection
That I might reach the intangible under his shirt. They
Invented a new gadget this morning that can do that.
Catch the train, you grip of spine, and then a rattle-dry
Angel, see the secrets roll below us as the train steam
Meets our ankles. A gadget told me someone said
You’d been asking after me. I don’t think you are a hypocrite
But I think I could well be. There was a day
I would have killed for this; hearing your potential
90 thoughts to my rampant 16.once I would’ve have taken you
And prayed my madness on your body, an electrical storm
Shorting out the grid of you. Last night I imagined
Heretic storms, bursting through your ribcage, the Super moon downloading howling out from your mouth.
Today, I imagine a quiet time instead.
Staying as friends, rightfully, laying back on the grass in the park, in summer
Drinking cans; our lazy bodies separate, and singing our names like drowsy flutes.