It seems a sad sign of these current times—
Polonius is now an oracle.
His vapid platitudes, his half thought lines

have become mantras for the countless fools
in need of self help soundbites for Twitter.
But they forget the feckless bore’s downfall—

a sharp blade through a drape ended his chatter.
Surrounding yourself with quaint ornaments
and pretty soundbites won’t provide a shelter

from reality. So don’t borrow or lend,
and by all means, to thine own self be true,
but beware of the sabre’s pointy end

and heavy footsteps bearing down on you.


Canto C

The sight of the moon above the tower block
feels like a greeting from a faithful friend,
although it’s just a lifeless hunk of rock.

It brings to mind Li Po’s alleged end,
trying to hug the moon’s reflection,
the endless black fathoms in which he drowned.

It’s easier to seek the adoration
of a million twitter followers than face
another stranger, eye to eye, to shine

your full attention onto them as they
apply the same attention unto you.
Perhaps it’s too much for our minds to take,

the fact of other minds that also view
the storms of photons through the squishy spheres
that sit within the skull, it’s easier to

project a narrow sanitised idea
of consciousness onto the mindless faces
of alabaster virgins, teddy bears,

those countless barren worlds in outer space.

Canto XXXI

Week nine, and now you’re the size of a grape;
all organs present and you’ve lost your tail,
seven months until you make the leap

from viewless womb into the teary vale.
I’m at the blues bar, early for the stag,
I’m Nially No Mates, solitary male,

adrift from the revery of the pack.
I down my Murphy’s, fire off a few tweets,
outside the sun blazes, inside time drags,

the boys are running thirty minutes late.
I’m counting beats to Howling Wolf’s Evil
you mark the 4-4 of your mother’s heart

the both of us, snug in our darkened bubbles.

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