The Apps men

We are not the hollow men

We are the filled men

The complete men

The technological men

We have screens so flat

We need not think

Just a swipe,

A slimy spread of our fingerprint

An oily wake

And all is revealed.

We are the Buddhist men

The jihad men

The Christian Dior men.

We cover everything

By placing it online,

The aether has been restored

The sun displaced

The earth is back in its rightful place.

We have mobile screens

Ipad screens

Filter the screams of the poor

The drought and flood victims

By placing them within

The safe four walls of another device.

We are the apps men

The gluttonous men

The never sated, never aging

Wrinkle free, hair dyed men.

We move from App to App,

Hermes with sandals not winged but plugged in.

We have exercise bikes,

Exercise balls,

Tracksuits and running shoes.

We have shiny Lycra and water bottles,

Sweat bands and fish oil tablets,

We swim and sauna and search for perfect abs.

We are not the hollow men

We are the filled men

The complete men

The technological men

This is the way the world crumbles

Not in heat

Not in climatic change

But through dead batteries

Or a credit card that refuses to purchase

The next device needed to stay one step behind

That which will be sold tomorrow.

This is the way the world crumbles

Not with the whisper, a plea, a cry

But the lack of bang for your bucks.

We are the Buddhist men

The jihad men

The Christian Dior men.

This is the way we end

Leaping into the Internet

And lost forever

In pathways not real.

Hands do not touch

Voices speak in typeface

And the colour of her eyes

The smell of her

The way she smiled

When spoken to is forgotten.

This is the way it ends

Not in the sweat and labor

Of the teenage leather backseat

But with a porn industry stealing souls

Selling need

Instead of desire

Making hands work for release

While eyes burn with the lies

Of what is really wanted.

We are not the hollow men

We are the filled men

The complete men

The technological men

This is the way the world ends

Not with a bang

But another parlor trick

A new launch of the next big thing

A journey into nothing.

We are the Buddhist men

The jihad men

The Christian Dior men.

While planet earth succumbs,

Whimpers, we elope

With hobbies and apps and meaningless games

Where birds are flung and diamonds won

As if any of it

Actually meant anything.