Here it is,
There is a crescent moon
A depleted, lunar centre
Like a cake with only an eighth’s frosting
Only a quarter coconut pastry (although doughtnuts are the thing now – some analogy for the purported shape of the universe)
Maybe it’s an analogy for the shape of consciousness – always encircling, never stuffed
What kind of weird generation is this?
The half-self, half-frosted, half-sure all the time, hollowed by this virtual realm
The self can be uploaded, updated and tailored to suit the material vision
Will we ever go back to porridge and brandy and poetry
Do we even fucking want to?
My father reminisces about times when pubs were organic, flexing forums
Not instagrammed, not whatsapped and facefucked to death
There is very little left to discover
Very little untapped earth to breathe quietly
Very few arcane hamlets in Goa to perform white yoga in
Very few exotic fruits to pair with humans
Except maybe when Greenland thaws