One of the myriad

Writing poetry has always been a peculiar occupation,
even more so now, in the Age of Imagination,
when it has turned from the spiritual torment of a few under patrician patronage
to a thankless endeavour pursued by the faceless myriad, hardly ever paid for,
even in that cheap currency called likes, driven by some obscure algorithm
that decides whether and to whom to show your stanzas.

What I’m actually trying to say is that I’m a pathetic third-rater,
feeling sorry for myself because no one reads me
—except you, of course.

Spiritual maladies

In the scorch of August, sitting naked in a garden chair
dragged into my airy living room, I read Carlyle’s notes
on the froth-eddies and sand-banks of the Mechanical Age
he was born into and wonder whether a simple urban hermit
from the Age of Imagination like myself should still repeat
after him that our spiritual maladies are but of Opinion.
Although we may be fettered by chains of our own forging,
which we ourselves could also rend asunder, the sheer number
of those who have fallen victim to their corrupting weight
hardly makes the latter plausible. But what would I know
beyond my sweaty, naked body?