poetry, Uncategorized

Diary Entry 9:

idbc7scfofw7resjzeqv8wkakvgjq48yzawgupowaua

Based on “Hands No. 6” by Kimberly Burnett

3:12. I leave the poem and complete it by 10:21.

Touch in the Time of Touchscreen

Warmth is but a warning and a comfort
depending on who or what you ask.
It’s a finger-flinching endeavor
that’s the branch and blade.
It’s the should, should, should of design
and a vine
in a vaporized vineyard, that sometimes
hits the tongue just…
r-r-right?
It’s a byte of that customizable consumption
and the act of waterproofing your attachments
from the contents of that
bashful
Hippocrene.
It’s an obscene
gesture
and a profound statement expressing in one pixelated face
how the t-t-times have changed.
It’s replacing the aging appliance with the new
model
and injecting impulse with a hydra hunger.
About weighing your worth on an exploding ego
and measuring the minutes
spent
attempting to dent
the Pandora’s box of praise.
It’s a phase, phase, phase,
reported as getting better,
short-circuiting and sucking the message
droid-dry from our warm, warmth-starved tips.
Distorted by a 60-sizes-fits-most-doxology,
no apologies are given
when neighbours are reduced to neurons
and virtue is a virus that rusts the ‘terms and conditions’
of the slavery we call
song.

As the gears keep growing, I ask you,
“What…am I loaning?
And to whom do I owe such debt?”

-Amy Struthers

Advertisements