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About This Poem
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.
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