Long dead are the pencil
and matchbox,
the letter to a distant sweetheart,
a velvet kiss on paper
cross cross cross.
No more flagons of ale
jerk along cobbled stone,
ready to ignite a summer Sunday.
Television killed poetry
and turned legs into arms,
man only needs fingers in this wired age.
Skin becoming stranger to bone,
medieval man would run in terror
from the silicon devils
we birth in videogames and tubes today;
it has all turned
from hymn to planet steel.
And harsh rum sodden hours
have melted into creamy parcels,
now everything ends in seconds...
@Steven Francis poems 2009
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