By John Grey
It's the twenty first century
and songs are so small
you can plug them in your ear.
Anna could have imagined so much
walking across the car-park
but instead is speaking on a cell-phone
to someone with nothing to say.
Only the crazy read books,
Only the insane parade their mental crises
up and down the halls of art galleries.
And poetry's so dead
they teach it in schools.
From my house in Rhode Island
to the mutilated of Baghdad
is a push of a button away.
I'm broadband, I'm wireless,
the new century's version
of off-hand and feckless.
The widow of the ex-finance minister
of Nigeria needs my help.
Strangers offer to make my penis grow
though I could be a woman
for all they know.
It' s the twenty first century
and all politics is no longer local
And thanks to GPS,
I can't get lost while driving.
Kids just born to the right families
are already campaigning for president.
And computers are writing books
for other computers to read.
And the art galleries have been closed off
so the inmates can't escape.
And poetry's so dead,
it’s buried everywhere.