To the Lucky Quill-Feathered Poets of Pre-Mac-Pc Yore

When I think of all the seconds I drubbed my fingers On the skin of long-drummed typefaces to wipe spam Away from the screen of my inboxes in my computers I wonder how many years of my life drift as flotsam So many sales pitches tail in mouth in epizeuses String their tuneless spiralling from end to no-end Swim in the swirling soup strings of multiverse oases Lost as jetsam into a blacksucked bottomless oven A spam is a foe who seeks to con you as an old friend Sure don’t mean that old spiv driveling over your girl But who’ll make you think you’re good for a lend While he seeks to worm your hard disc in a whirl McPeesee McCoffee McMoney or McMaster Kasparov Spam is the Checkmate King none of us can fend off © T. Wignesan – Paris, from the Collection “Poems Omega Plus”, 2005.