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.

N.W.O

We trade in handshakes
of ghostly currency.
Spectres melting into
leather office chairs,
£1000 shoes propped up,
hard-heel tapping mahogany.
99% scrabbling at chicken-feed
pinching news items between their fingers,
screens harbouring wipeable perspiration,
when long before it disappeared,
between pages of law and righteousness.

We’re told its empty:
The comfort of the Euro feels
nothing like the £’ing of heart
against heart with an embrace.
But clammy and desperate we
compete to live for techno-respite,
sharing our global position
through social media machines
and laughing at funny tidbits;
something to disengage the brain
when you start wondering why
your bank account haemorrhages,
and your neighbour has two new cars.

We trade in misinformation,
skulduggery to chug
the oil and gentle fucking
of the 1%.
£6 shoes propped up
against IKEA furniture
and the age old question
of free-will.

Yahweh

I’d skip registration
and catch the 535 into town,
slapping into a dusty seat I would sit
staring at mother’s force feeding the morning
bottle and old couples supporting
one another down the isle.

I’d walk through the street, past building society’s
packed with pension grubbers, dolites
and mortgage scrabblers; coffee palaces
brimming with comfy jeans snuggled
into war torn leather, supporting double-shot
skinny de-caf frappuccino with sprinkles,
doubling up on false conversation.

I step up through the path
across redemption paving,
in through the archway
and sit in the the pew.
I’d watch old birds peck at dirty pages,
while the collared chap
dusts the ripped
oak beams, eyes praying for conversation.

This is your God now, shallow
and deafeningly silent.
I bought one one of your necklaces
and paid in gold, frankincense and myrrh:

It’s buried somewhere I think, gulls
probably squawk above it.

The Stream

It’s hard to place the feeling of popping words onto page, watching the dirty lexis splash onto the screen. We can’t hold pens any more, fingers stretch and bind to paint pixels, they’ve unfurled after hundreds and hundreds of years. We’ve changed and now it’s even harder to find a connection to your favourite author, now that we can’t imagine the weighty strain of actually. Putting. Ink. To. Paper. Or the sweat of an unblemished bastard of a notepad. They’re all handily in one place, typed and never scrawled;

you can’t read my writing anyway.