The Step Ahead that Drives Me Backwards (March 2015)
Focused, strained, ebullient,
the bothers flash, snapping together.
Young bucks observe the prey displayed
as screens reflect the culture of the ether.
A wedless, damaged, obesified maid
laments her life and blames the crowd.
Could it be tonight’s the night
the silver shines beneath the cloud?
Slouched close behind the glass smartphonic;
in trappist tennis to the self.
The vacuum warms minds catatonic,
washed down with private grins and sonic
gifs of vines punching the ear,
as comic bites transmit the virus.
Don't you bloody interfere,
I demand my fix of Beiber and Cyrus.
The living room becomes redundant,
gene pools cloned and dismembering,
soaked with content, lifting lids
in moments as the drug is buffering.
Know ledge knowingly overloads
young bodily functions to atrophy.
Five thousand likes, one thousand comments.
Check out my awesome apathy selfie.
The tools are cool, replacing school.
the teachers do not stand a chance.
The kids just make them look like fools,
guiding them in a sorry little dance.
From legends told, books shared, re-souled;
the information su-stains brains.
Gems sink in sand-pits, sieve-owners flourish
The rest are left to blow the grains.
Dunes seem deserted, without life,
but spinifex provides some shelters
just in moments, thin it is, see
mooring malleable minds without anchors.
Old cautionary tales abound,
available twenty four seven.
You came from, shall return to ground
whether or not you believe in heaven.
Go take a walk, lung-suck the air.
Resist those wristic digit slides.
For here is now and now is here.
The heart beats only finite tides.
As power fades, signals diminish,
a panic falls on those affected.
Incredulous there is no wifi
and why they feel so disconnected.
©2015 March John T. Windle/Vaudeville John
(Photo John T. Windle, Imperial Palace Grounds, Tokyo)
Focused, strained, ebullient,
the bothers flash, snapping together.
Young bucks observe the prey displayed
as screens reflect the culture of the ether.
A wedless, damaged, obesified maid
laments her life and blames the crowd.
Could it be tonight’s the night
the silver shines beneath the cloud?
Slouched close behind the glass smartphonic;
in trappist tennis to the self.
The vacuum warms minds catatonic,
washed down with private grins and sonic
gifs of vines punching the ear,
as comic bites transmit the virus.
Don't you bloody interfere,
I demand my fix of Beiber and Cyrus.
The living room becomes redundant,
gene pools cloned and dismembering,
soaked with content, lifting lids
in moments as the drug is buffering.
Know ledge knowingly overloads
young bodily functions to atrophy.
Five thousand likes, one thousand comments.
Check out my awesome apathy selfie.
The tools are cool, replacing school.
the teachers do not stand a chance.
The kids just make them look like fools,
guiding them in a sorry little dance.
From legends told, books shared, re-souled;
the information su-stains brains.
Gems sink in sand-pits, sieve-owners flourish
The rest are left to blow the grains.
Dunes seem deserted, without life,
but spinifex provides some shelters
just in moments, thin it is, see
mooring malleable minds without anchors.
Old cautionary tales abound,
available twenty four seven.
You came from, shall return to ground
whether or not you believe in heaven.
Go take a walk, lung-suck the air.
Resist those wristic digit slides.
For here is now and now is here.
The heart beats only finite tides.
As power fades, signals diminish,
a panic falls on those affected.
Incredulous there is no wifi
and why they feel so disconnected.
©2015 March John T. Windle/Vaudeville John
(Photo John T. Windle, Imperial Palace Grounds, Tokyo)