Tomorrow's poems

Amitabha Mukerjee

Tomorrow's poetry will sing a different song -
It will dance to me, it will run along.
It will interact
It will break the pact
Of immutability that sheaths
Printed writing like funereal wreaths.
Lines they come at me lines
Fragments of conversations from longgone times
Over the screen of my poetry gizm,
I snatch it as it zips into the schism
Collage it in tune with my liferhythm,
A thing of beauty - a malapropism.
Die, you spineless pastel shade,
For me the vermilion and burgundy
Although these thoughts constantly fade,
They are forever stark and sprightly.
No immortal words here -
Words die slain at touch of button,
No T.S. Eliot here can breed,
Nor shall you find here a rustic Milton,

But here I play
Impervious to what you say,
Words piled on images
Oh the wise words of sages,
Violated, Venerated, Vitiated
Elated, Mutated, Transported,
Unfinished sentences
In midair; Verb tenses
Gingerly seeking time of action,
Past present future - Insubordination:
I break, I spill, I wither, I fill,
I create, I destroy, I please, I annoy,
I gather, I disperse, I usurp, I disburse,
I smile, I cry, I give up, I try
Oh what frabjous joy
In this poetic toy.