I am putting you on speakerphone because I’m
about to WhatsApp a friend who’s gonna conference me in
on a Skype call with a guy she met on LinkdIn
who had liked a WordPress blog of hers that linked him
to her Facebook wall where I had posted a picture
of the both of us and commented
My Facebook timeline is
just a guideline
to my growing insecurateens
sewing my insecurities
in cupped hands whose fingers intertwine with the unknown
desperately trying to keep soil from slipping through.
Being content ( insert inverted commas)
– is measured by my web content –
in knowing I am connected getting
an email from someone I have never met because
somewhere out there
in that intangibility, the net
has more versions of me than I can check.
And the challenge
is to be them.
All the time,
for the purpose of this allegory let’s call me she
so that I can maintain that personal
that has stretched me thinner than my iPhone screen.
She is a bullet in high heels running
headfirst into herself.
restocks the kitchen shelves with a collection of memory
shells arranged in alphabetical order to hide
the disorder she digests daily only for a brain draining dose of soul diarrhoea
shuts the bedroom door failing
I prescribe apathy.
retarded by her smart phone and a 20yr old nappy
She clings to the shit she should have learned to expel by now,
“but couldn’t care less”
Flabby arms and back fat and the sweat on her pants
from when she last sat, that
is how she thinks people see her.
The problem is
that she thinks people see her when in actual fact
she looked back first and couldn’t hold her gaze.
It’s been days since she last looked up from her shoes.
She can tell the left from the right by the scuff marks she’s added
through the vintage filter on Instagram.
Her waking life was lived
between hits of the snooze button and the plan
was to go out walking –
to see the bright lights and the busy streets and
let the psycho-geographical contours of her heart beat guide her.
she doesn’t leave the house.
She shuts out the day so she can see her screen better –
you know, cause she might misplace a letter
on one of her broadcast messages.
She carries around a R300 umbilical cord to keep her baby alive.
The one that sucks the life right out of her breast,
attached at the nipple
in case she receives a friend request.
She is Y
She can’t sleep or breathe without a full battery
She is Y
She monitors her heartbeat by the beep of a message tone and
She is Y
She only likes herself when someone else likes one of her photos.
Generation X and Generation Y…
As it stands, we’re only one letter away from the end of the alphabet
But I’m sure we’ve nearly perfected it…
Perfected this art of living breathing transparencies
You should see me, be me, click me, free me
Never Look Away.
Staring down one end of a cut off power cable she loses her sight in
eyelashes like a forest at the end of a road
and she forgets to look up.
She forgets to stretch out her hands and compare her
veins to those of the leaves falling at her feet
She forgot to ask you whether you prefer coffee or tea
But she’s already got your BBM pin
before your hand rests lightly on my shoulder and then falls through
Like a foot in the dark when you think there is one more step
and don’t forget to stay in touch