Wednesday, December 4, 2013

Ernst Stavro Blofeld’s Android Army

All of them, all at once—

the WPC at the scene of an accident
scrolling through her album tracks,
the jogger at the park urinal
browsing his 18-30 holiday snaps,

the fat wife in a loose towelling gown
singlehandedly fixing herself a snack,
the widow cooing to an absent lover
as she slips out of something satiny and black,

the invigilator with a four-card straight
praying for a six or a jack,
the teacher’s favourite coyly texting
the rough with his feet on a desk at the back,

the man wearing only leopard-print shorts
hunting for a bedsit in a Laundromat,
the couple comparison shopping for shoes
on a comfortable sofa in Habitat,

the distracted Dominoes delivery rider
tripping over a crazy paving crack,
the banker relocating strategic assets
without passing GO to an offshore bank,

the tourists streaming down Baker Street
slavishly following Google Maps,
the jumper sending his neighbour
a last request: please put out my cat—

who were long ago primed for the trigger
are polaxed in their tracks
and stand and stare beleaguered
at Blofeld’s free-to-download mobile app:

Put down your phones, my angels of ruin,
rise up, and attack,

then their phones ring, and they all go back
to doing exactly what they were doing.

© 2013 Slush Poet

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