Sunday, 18 January 2009

POETRY - Send.

Like a work of Joycean majesty,
It streams from fingers,
to touch pad and beyond.
Instant messages instantly maligned,
barking mismatched calls at the night,
Like a transfixed dog,
howling at it's shadow,
Born of a drunken slump
It slides with a speeding ferocity
And roars into the ears,
but never hearts,
of the distant.
The drunken text,
the midnight shake,
The key pad punch,
With its trail of explanations.
True sentiments are lost
When delivery
Dresses them in tinsel
And not stars.

Peter Davidson 19/01/09

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