Thursday, 10 March 2016

More from the poetaster : lost in plastic and the present


They're saying my potato crisp is a chip
Just as my chips were changed to French fries.
I put it on the card, never leave a tip.
This is all fact, not temporary lies.


No longer a crisp
Still a crisp















Stuck in decades not extant
Wistful for the crackle of vinyl on radiogram;
Like others I swipe plastic, peer at the iPhone in my hand
but lose the idea of who I was, ipso facto who I am.

Of this man of letters, learning and erudition,
dusty books are no longer a measure;
sneering and cursing with Luddite derision,
I hold iPad and Kindle, for new fangled treasure.


In despair to the attic, I find an old Beano or Dandy,
re-discover my comforter, my very own modus operandi.





Manual for leading a contented life 







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