Not Cut Out from the ModCloth

A Bop inspired by The Wombat’s “1996”

The next time somebody asks me if I have a Twitter or Tumblr or Trazzlewack,
I’m putting on my tunic and tights and retreating to Sherwood
to live among toads and tamaracks and tea kettles
because gigabytes process faster than my emotions
these days, and I don’t get the same rush from geo-tapping
as my acquaintances—sorry, my friends, confirmed.

I’m not cut out for the modern life.

Far and wide is the hub for notification
and social amplification, but how do I gain instant
gratification without Instagram? And with Helvetica dictation
nestled in everyone’s pocket, theft
of intellectual property is both rampant and myth—for some claim
a lapse in concentration. They confuse selfhood with status.
And while the trending proceed boldly with wired hearts,
we refugees attempt to mimic with hemp and vine.

I’m not cut out for the modern life.

Neon and pastel clash, and one outglows the other. There used
to be a place for the faded, for dulcet tunes
and spacious attention. Then, we liked to strip our bundled thoughts
layer by layer, exploring each button and seersucker sleeve
before peeling back for more. Now prevails a thirst for the aggressive,
to have these forms naked and ready.

I’m leaving, I’m leaving. I’m not cut out for the modern life.