by Rory Turnbull

A human need ensures that we shall leer
At Fortune’s favours, others’ joys unreal;
And yet, when others too begin to jeer
At our denuded privacy, we feel
The need to curse, to curse computers then.
We mourn how emails pester us until
Our fingers always fix themselves again
Upon our phones, and send more emails still.
Suppose, therefore, that all of this were banned.
Without it all, what then would we become?
An instrument incapable, a hand
That’s maimed, that lacks its fingers, lacks its thumb.
Thus, see in this the clear absurdity:
Life’s needed nuisance, digitality.

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