The Internet Invented Poetry
“Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth.” Oscar Wilde
The Libraries are full of luddites
Weeping Wikipedia tears o’er
Keats and Yeats eulogies.
Breaking News on Sky:
Scientists are cloning souls in
Bunkums of human abattoirs.
For a moment, the sky dies.
Spinning blackened skeins on unrequited looms
Sentence is passed on charlatans & grandeurs deluded.
As the webs weave, terminally it seems,
Words are kindled in Sanskrit flames.
In brown rooms, a cursor flenses coward skin.
Steering fantasies into lonely harbours
See how the sails are red and flagged.
What became of the existential poets?
Ironically, they have ceased to exist,
The poor animal fatally forked.
Each comedy is not divine,
A Latin loving wordsmith’s final bow:
There but for the grace of Godot,
Always waiting in homes of strangers,
Waiting always. Still.
Sitting wide to receive
A power cut now
Would quell the fleeting hope.
Left to my own devices
I probably would.
To browse or not to browse
Is the quiescent of our age,
Rage against the dying of the page
Or controversially, in tautology,
Find reality in the real world.