I wonder what it will be like to be 55. 

Each face will be known in time, relations and relationships formed

through viral videos, HD blossom punching through screens

to form a pink crust on smiling faces.

Steady lines etched on taut skin, (spiralling from 1999 to 2016

and onwards) until the inkings blur and stretch

foreshadowing wrinkles of youth.

Aristocratic histories, doling out death with a flick of the wrist

replaced with caustic app swiping and lifelong settlements.

Too busy being shadowed with electric lighting

to thumb laughter lines or pinch hair between teeth

and happy with flaccid VR, the modern person loses touch

with relations and relationships formed.



With every chafed step

a portfolio of struggle is formed,
salutes and whoops,
phone flashes and hand slapping. 
Hyperbolic fissures of a gross
‘Well-done’ and the clamouring
to hook in new feeders. 
‘You won’t believe what she did
with her tits’,
‘#6 is an absolute doozy, you have to see this’. 
Well aware that I’m one in one-
thousand to pound through
to #6, it’s the sudden hankering
for online bingo 
and the spiral through slideshows
that concerns me most. 


No chicken.
I am afraid there’s a poultry quarantine.
Hen pecked and dragged by their necks
through disinfectant, feathers matted
into a blonde and gold hazmat suit

clucks suitably fowl,
(gargled) when up to their wattles
in bleach and corn bile.

Birds can be replaced, but I’m a unique
one of seven billion.

Just swill it and serve my fucking
coq au vin, no imports.


You fought to line the streets
naked and unflinching under
car headlights and cat calls.

Stars and Stripes draped over your
most Godly sons and daughters
and still your stomach curls
into itself and you reach for the
good-time pipe.

Brothers and sisters sit fat in their
cars, convenience shopping at Drive-Thrus
and you sip the dregs of leftover coffee.
Children shake and splutter towards
morbid squalor, the American Dream of ripped out windows and being
crane lifted to the floor.

You fought to line your streets
head bowed in silent prayer
to social media Gods.
Fingers patter $$$ but you pay with health and social commentary.

The divide of death and life
and survival and flourishing
evermore present.