Connected
He sits there in the corner
all alone,
Absorbed in reading the latest
text,
The most amazing fun he ever
has,
Almost better than even having
sex.
He can’t hear what I’m saying
– he’s too far gone:
His social manners are quite
uncouth.
His dearest object is his
smart-phone,
His only worries are wi-fi and
Blue-tooth.
He always likes to be
connected:
To be abandoned would cause a
frown,
So he texts and tweets and
emails,
In case he misses what’s going
down.
He’s got all the very latest
gadgets -
Wireless hardware, and some
software apps.
There’s nothing he can’t find
out, or look up -
In his world, there aren’t too
many gaps.
He aims to be online
completely wireless,
Accessing his friends and data
on the move,
Reporting on his every
whereabout,
To let them know he’s in the
groove.
You could be talking and he
wouldn’t hear you,
He’s engrossed in looking at
Facebook -
It’s as if he’s not really
with you,
Just as if he couldn’t give a
fuck.
His skin has assumed a ghostly
pallor,
And his finger-nails are
turning green.
Unearthly shadows flick across
his face,
Reflected from his i-Phone’s
tiny screen.
His brow is furrowed in
concentration,
As he reads what’s recently
occurred,
Crouched over the device
within his hands,
And his fast-texting thumbs
are blurred.
He’s terrified he might lose
his signal,
Or his life as a connected man,
The phone he’s clutching, and
frequently touching,
Just two seconds is his
attention span.
Each incoming message holds
promise,
Of some earthly contact
electronic:
As if it’s asserted that he’s
not been deserted,
Though his responses are
mostly moronic.
His hearing has almost
deserted him,
His eyes are hooded, his jaw
it hangs slack.
He’s not really with us here
in the room,
As he sits there emailing at
the back.
Yes he’s got to be Mister
Connected -
His concentration must be
concerted,
But one of these days, he’s
gonna look up,
And find himself totally
deserted!
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