Divination Isn’t What It Was
The pay-as-you-go syndrome catches up with you.
This morning all my tags were apathetic or empty.
It was overcast, impatient and grey.
I went out amongst leaf litter that seemed glum.
I looked into clouds for divination.
I couldn’t construe their puffy encryptions.
Newsprint melted into the driveway.
There were grubs everywhere, gnawing
the chlorophyll I’ve paid for.
The fibre’s collapsing, the service charter is a joke.
I feel like shouting a few terms of resentment
if I can find the bile that’ll do it.
I suspect it’s a communication strategy that won’t spawn
affirmative values. O poor me, etcetera, etcetera.
Where is the sun, is it anxious?
Is the solar system being hacked?
Is it a kind of hyper-fib, a faction of the moment?
What’s new pussycat, no, really.
I just don’t know what to do with myself
and it smells like déjà vu or history
another denial of service, or the vacuity
of being stalked by another dissatisfied client
under leaden skies. What kind of
performance management system is that?
Now the magpie spies me
and I become another timorous animal
in the audacious, taunting air.