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

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