Modern Poems

Space of Waste

The Internet is a poem, a 21st century epic,
If Google is ‘God’, then God I’m pathetic.
The Internet is nothing but poker and porn,
there really is no reason for us being born.

The Internet began a long, long time ago
back in ancient Egypt, Wikipedia told me so.
The Internet is alive, growing bigger every day,
we crash and burn on the cyber highway.

The Internet is a business of traffic and users,
if you’re not uploading you’re one of the losers.
The Internet is my friend, a book of faces,
but we never ‘click’, we inhabit different spaces.

The Internet is a domain, a land of its own,
send me an email, but don’t call me by phone.
The Internet is slow and we are children of speed,
there are millions of blogs that no-one will read.

The Internet is down, you have a System Error.
We are all components in this web of terror.
The Internet is free speech, real people power,
you can change the president, but never the hour.

The Internet is a library, infinite and wise,
we no longer need to look to the skies.
The Internet is Mom, Dad and Babysitter.
You can find this poem on YouTube and Twitter.


Children of Babies

Babies of the baby boomers,
of the flower children, the rock n’ rollers,
those who remember JFK,
John and Yoko, yesterday.
I’m talking ’bout that generation,
who could not get no satisfaction,
I guess the times they were a-changin’
while in Vietnam the war was raging.

Ginsberg was howlin’, the wind was blowin’
words were flowin’ like Lenny Cohen.
2001 was a mere space odyssey,
man on the moon was satellite TV.
Andy Warhol and the Velvet Underground,
were riders on the storm of a new sound.
Hendrix played Woodstock at break of dawn,
but the dream died before it was even born.

On a balcony one night stood MLK,
the cops or someone blew him away.
We shall overcome they all once sang,
but that was before they heard the bang.
Hard rain’s gonna fall and fell it did,
heroine flowed through the ghetto kids.
Marvin Gaye asked ‘what’s happening bro?’
Maybe our children will one day know.

Apocalypse Now, loathing and fear,
All you need is love and a 50K career.
Generation X and Generation Y,
travel the globe to kiss the sky.
You could call us the mobile generation.
Cyborgs with imagination.
We are the searchers surfing through time,
looking for something to mellow our minds.

To check the balance of your account, press one.
To transfer money from one account to another, press two.
For lost or stolen cards, press three.
If you would like to pay your outstanding balance by direct debit, press four.
If you like the word ‘muesli’, press five.
If you get scared by thunder and lightning storms late at night, press six.
If you believe in one monotheistic God, press seven.
If you are an atheist or believe in many gods, such as the sun god Helios, press eight.
For reincarnation, press nine.
To listen to some ancient Tibetan Buddhist chants, press ten.
Trotskyites, press eleven.
Hermaphrodites, twelve.
For information on the displacement of the Aboriginal population of Australia in the late 18th century, press thirteen.
If you just want to get stoned, press fourteen followed by the hash key.
If you treat your pet dog better than most human beings, press fifteen.
People that still carry some torch of hope for humanity, press sixteen followed by star.
For sarcasm or wit, don’t press seventeen whatever you do.
To speak to a customer service representative, please call the premium number between the hours of 10 AM and 10.30 AM on Monday, Tuesday and Thursday.
To return to the main menu please text the words ‘Egyptian Mummification in the Predynastic Period’ to 666 or hold the line while we drill holes in your ear.
Thank you for banking with, finance at your fingertips.

Life is Not a Resume…

Life is not a resume,
you don’t have to login, logout,
clock in, clock off,
swipe your card,
pass with straight ‘A’s
or delete your imagination.

Life is not a resume,
you don’t need to have 3 years’ managerial experience,
an MBA from ITC,
a diploma in computer wizardry,
be an independent team player
or speak three languages while juggling on tiptoe.

Life is not a resume,
you don’t need to fill in a form
when you die.
No-one will ask for a letter of recommendation
because all your revelations
are internalized. Life is not a resume.

Hamlet on Wall St

I yield to the yeast of Nasdaq,
Thy frozen dollar hangeth from African trees,
a rate of 3.33 recurring,
amidst our false economies.

I beseech thee, oh CEO of the G20,
bear witness to the CPI and GDP,
the EU, UN and thou wretched Dow Jones,
and reduce thy incestuous income tax immediately!

For what valor, a billion euros?
What separateth the bank from the slaughterhouse?
A mere exchange rate, methinks,
that maketh a mockery of man and king of a mouse.

‘Tis inflation that’s to blame,
for the subprime mortgage liquidation,
the merger of murderers,
the deceitful corporations.

Ay, a plague hath descended,
on Wall St’s treacherous walls.
The housing market poisoned,
by profits and by fools.

Behold! The credit crunch and
the hedgefund’s funeral pyre,
thy lawless stocks and shares,
acquisitions in the fire.

Conglomerates converge,
in an evil covenant,
their money it doth multiply,
by 6.66 per cent.

So farewell, all ye merchants
with your demonic financial doom.
There are more things in heaven and earth,
than your equity bubbles and boom.


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