Soft-Wearing

How weary stale, flat and unprofitable

seem to me all the uses of this world

                               -     Hamlet

We are chips

chipped off

discs of

transmigrated souls

less in the weight of love.

“What’s up?” asks

my grandmother.

“Whatsapp” I say.

That’s all we live for.

A new learning puts us

at a dangerous ease

crushing the dreams

of life under heavy

digital missions of mind

in the gullies of the

metropolitan trash cans.

Brains drain out

in the confluence

of brain drain.

Miles away the soil

moans with pain

where the womb

of love travels

the road that leads

to the larger rooms

of senility where even

lovemaking is digitalised.