alfie lee writing

The Age

We merely exist in an age when a cellphone
capture of a pet bunny doing nothing
really, or a piece of cake, or shoe, to be consumed,
traffics all the piques and hits and likes
to set the world alight
on the silicon tablets of our time.

Some mornings i don’t get out of bed.
What is the point between sleep and wake
when time is out of joint? I don't hate
everyone or everything. Perhaps some
more than some. I admit. I'm angry
at all that endeavour lost to puerile
entertainment that's again been done.
All that growth dragged back in the muck.
Nevermind. I am getting old.
But i'll be damned if i'll get dumb.

I am water out of fish, insides turned out,
gutted from the old cliché.
With all the elements
of air and breath
and life, gulped and gilled,
extracted and expelled. Or

a dwindling salt sink too distant past
to rouse the rain's recall.
With tell-tale rings of white high up,
bone dry where once was dark and cool,
when primordial spawn did breach the air
to brave new worlds in schools.


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