And now, at last, a poem

So, like the rest of you I am addicted to Facebook. I think I may have a problem. It's not just a singular activity any more - last week two friends came over and after discussing several mutual acquaintances we spent a good couple of hours scanning through pictures of them; grinning faces huddled round a screen, looking at some one else rather than each other. Worse than that; before I say hello or offer to buy a round of drinks I grab the nearest ipone to check for any juicy red NOTIFICATIONS that have emurged in the half an hour it took me to get there.

A not-unforeseeable revulsion arose in me at this point so I wrote a poem about it.


I am suddenly so sick of self
And all the other bits
We shout or type or write about
The words we claim we own
That appearance that
We’ve propped up on sticks
Or occupied in a hundred clicks
A whole cavalcade that’s set in stone

It’s always in the meaning
And the space between
The well-used words
The unthought extradition
Of the murmuring made heard
It’s splattered in our faces
(And yes, in magazines)
It’s ugly and it’s sinister
It’s unpeeling at its hidden seams

Because it’s not about the words
Or the image stuck in pixels on a mantelpiece
Or shelf
Or website (yes, you know which one)
The inherently familiar,
Distant socializing zone
As yes, I’m sick of self
And all the other bits
That sit inside
And try to tell us that we’re not alone