my mum used to joke
    that my eyes would turn square
if i looked at pixels too long.
i remember the scare
that my pupils would bend
into inky black stamps,
and my retinas bleached
from the machinery glow.
that i would wander the streets
only for children to point
and scream
while their own mothers tutted
'you still want that playstation
for christmas?'
now i'm grown up
and that vision has died,
as the streets are all littered
with others, square-eyed.
i can imagine their
xylophone skeletons as
their fingers tap fast
on the tiny blue screens;
it's no wonder we aren't
very good with
eye contact.
so
i'm sorry mum,
we've all been entrapped
in this pixellated blur
of technological time lapse.
and i guess all these
square pegs can't fit
into the round holes
that they used to be,
in a world that we cannot
remember.

we emerge in the morning
  from our cotton cocoon.
misshapen and distant,
  spines upright too soon.
i peek out, hazy eyed -
  black spike corolla lashes
fossil-old mascara dried.
  i speak out, lazy mouthed -
once bright expectations
  now damp, the fire doused.

we promise, hands tied, to eagerly phone,
until we escape - at last - to go be alone.