The 31 Days of Scary

The 31 Days of Scary – Day 5: The Love Song of J. Blogger Prufrock

The Love Song of J. Blogger Prufrock

In Memoriam of E.A.P.

Et Apologia T.S. Eliot

Let us go then, you and I,

When street lights are spread out in the sky

Like box-set Netflixers fixated on sofas;

Let us go, through certain seeming-deserted streets,

Full of Bookface and retweets,

And of restless nights in faceless dirt cheap dirty sheeted motels

And sawdust hipster bars with brass bells and oyster-shells;

Streets that follow like an endless troll baited twitter argument

Of Trump-like discontent

To lead you to an overwhelming question…

Oh, do not ask, ‘What is it?’

Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the goths come and go

Talking of Edgar Allan Poe.

The stinking smog that rubs its nose upon the window-sills,

The vape smoke that etches its strange upon the window-sills,

Wound its screams into the corners of the night,

Made its rounds in circling, mournful, white gowns,

Binding joys and desires with briars and hell-fires,

Let fall upon its back the soot that rising from factories,

Slipping by the high-rises, soaring in the sky,

And seeing that it was a soft October night,

Circled once about the house, and roosted up high.

In the room the goths come and go

Talking of Edgar Allan Poe.

And indeed there will be time

To postt, ‘Do I dare?’ and, ‘Do I dare?’

Time to retweet and hold the phone and stare,

Take a selfie of the bald spot in my hair –

(They’ll subtweet: ‘His hair’s so thin, lol, look at him!’)

My striped scarf tight, my shirt and jacket done up right to my chin,

My jeans scruffy, but expensively so, with a designer label to clue you in –

(They’ll subtweet: ‘But how his legs and arms are thin!’)

Do I dare

Disturb the universe?

In a minute there is time

For tweets and texts and blog posts no ‘undo’ action can reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all –

Have done the tweets, texts, blog posts, emails and live streams,

I have measured out my life with virtual dreams;

I’ve heard unspoken voices with the loudest clamour

Beneath the music of a furthest room,

So how should I presume?

And I have seen the selfies already, seen them all –

The selfies that fix you in a House of Wax,

And when I am waxen, and made into a Pin,

When I am Pinned and wriggling on the Wall,

Then how should I begin

To spit out all the Moments of my days and ways?

And should I then presume?

And how should I begin?

* * * *

Shall I say, I have gone at sundown through the blind-drawing town

And watched the smoke that rises from the e-cigarettes

Of lonely people outside offices and shops?…

I should have a pair of scratching claws

Scuttling across the empty spaces in car parks.

* * * *

No! I am not Daredevil, nor was I meant to be

But a comedy sidekick, one that will do

To move on the action, start a scene or two,

Talk to the hero; no doubt, an easy tool,

Fun to be there, happy to be of use,

A bit pedantic and facetious;

Sensible too, to the point it is ridiculous –

Always, always, the Fool.

I grow old… I grow old…

Shall I wear the bottom of my jeans ripped or rolled?

Do I dare eat quinoa? Do I dare not eat an organic peach?

I shall wear fairtrade cotton trousers, and walk upon a Thai beach.

I have heard The One Dimension singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding on the crest of their fame

Confidence streaming through their perfect hair blown back.

I hope the future won’t blow them blue and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of a soulless sea

Wreathed in the seaweed of fame and noise and endless empty chatter

Till humanity and a Voice wakes us, and we drown.

Edgar Allan PoepoetryshropshireT S Eliot

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