We are all plugged into
the machine
but the machine is now
the Earth.
Its furrows are now areas
of low bandwidth,
its rivers the confluences
of cables.
But all I want is to be
a voice for it,
become the beauty, the suffering
the variety.
This grey machine still thrums
with colour
if you adjust your eyes to the light
so very carefully.
I think its confluence?
ReplyDelete(not s)
I don't like the first stanza - I think the title alone merging onto the its furrows... could stand on itself? I think its too disjointed as the rest of the stanzas have a much nicer flow....
J.F
X
Cheers, James. I did look it up (because I am anal like that - I do Language, for frick sake!) and it turns out the plural is actually conflux! I'm not using that word for fear of coming across as a pretentious twat, so I'll leave it for now. It'd be cool if you'd show me what you mean in person. Gonna check out the podcast you did, too - Tom and Sam tell me you covered some interesting ground. I wrote all three of those Earth-kissing poems on the train, hence why they might seem a bit rushed! I'd like to expand this one.
ReplyDeleteThanks once again. x