I should've guessed
by the nondescript response
teenagers glazed
by 'proper' use of language;
'old-speak' as some would see it
yet to be blessed by a words prowess
fazed by more than 1 syllable
seems inconceivable
and yet text-speak sits,
or rather, should be, languish,
as a hybrid of our languages
prompts me to write this
out of plain literary anguish.

each year on birthdays
write a small poem or limerick
the momentary excitement of opening the card
is lapsed by reason
(it does not contain a £20 note)
the thought bubble denotes
they express some disdain
the speech bubble that follows
the spark in the brain
just another of Uncles gimmicks
lacking the imagination to invoke
something more personal
than a hardback book:
another 200 recipes
for the aspiring young cook

they implied they enjoyed lunchtimes at school
instead wanted an iPad or something
equally expensive and cool

So I try to embrace it
this thing they call urban
write something poetic in text-speak
the very premise of it
is somewhat disturbing
the infinite curve of learning
LOLs from actual LOLS;
the mobile language equivalent
of online voyeurs,
the posters of nonsense,
noobs and trolls

apparently a ROFL
is more-or-less as potent as ****
I scratch my head in wonder
text-speak is used by millions
to converse on a global scale
some how

Q: does SUM exist
(as in 'shut ur mouth' )
is that acceptable?

A: not yet cordially invited on the list
(its an actual word
doesn't count as an acronym)
Im told

the coal face of the lexicon:
indigestible
the steep learning curve:
unpredictable

by your 30s its automatically
re-classified:
Congratulations
You are now officially 'Old'

we are merely wordsmith pedestrians
lost in the tide of text-speak equestrians
jumping and leaping and rolling in SETE and S2R's
are we binned as an S4L, the Spam For Life?
(perhaps I haven't got that abbreviation quite right)

in the context of text-speak
they are suitably troll-like in their essence
forgive me dear teenager
I am but a
SNAG in your presence:

'Sensitive'
(on occasion)
'New
Age' and
'Grown-up'
(given the right persuasion)

the riposte would be SUYF!!
('Shut Up You Fool' - said like MR. T in A-Team)
STM and Spank The Monkey
apologise, SOZ, SRY and Apls
or something equally short,
snappy and funky

at this juncture
before the brain has a puncture
simply BBFN, lest I
BBS or BBIAB or BBIAF
[thankfully this isn't a test]

like WCA
(Who Cares Anyway)
but you'd remark WAI
(and thats I for Idiot)
let out a long distance sigh
wave the imaginary fist
at the youth of yesteryear

all you'd get back was
Wicked Evil Grin
(WEG) for a
Wild *** Guess
(WAG);
a WEG for a WAG
and a PDQ x 2

would be the sum parts of the conversation
between me and you

if language and words and meaning was lost
if acronyms and abbrieviations
in CAPS
was all that there was

*** smeared in ***
with APLS for the PMJI
TXT SPK has got me PML
when MHBFY and
M8s on a MOB crusade
AWOL and dizzy for the next API
MGB for your MF device
throw in some GALGAL logic
where GIGO will simply suffice
Warning: PAW and GJIAGDV
(where the latter is Volcano)
include your GF for some cuddly GBH
and some GHP if she says so

its T2Go
be positive with the T+
and all of that Text-Speak CUZ
I'll T2UL and T for your time,
I'll TAH on the whole TBC

next year i'll just slip in a £20 note
and simply write:
Happy Birthday
with LV
from me

It looked like rain.

Sky dark and dim.

Yiska stood
in the playground
waiting to see Benedict
get off the school bus.

She needed to see him
before lessons began
or there would be
little chance if it rained.

She had prayed
-at least in mind-
for dry weather
and clear skies,
but it didn't
seem promising.

Kids passed on
their way into
school playgrounds:
boys into theirs,
girls into theirs.

Why couldn't
they mix?
She mused.

One school bus
came in,
but not his,
his was a different bus
than that which arrived.

More kids walked past.

She sighed.

Scratched a thigh,
brushed fingers
through her hair.

Then it came in
around the bend.

She searched
the windows,
hoping he
was coming,
hoping he'd
be first off
not last as he
was sometimes.

He was last,
head down,
hand in pockets,
looking at the ground
in deep thought.

She hoped he'd
looked up as
he went by.

She hoped.

She wondered.

Benedict,
she called,
peering through
the wire fence.

He looked up
and smiled.

Can we talk?
She asked.

Yes, sure,
he said
and he followed her
along the fence
as she looked
for space where
it was free of girls.

Looks like rain,
she said,
looking at the sky,
then at him.

Yes, it does,
he said,
peering at her
through the fence,
wishing it wasn't there.

Won't see you much
if it rains, if at all,
she said.

He leaned near
as he could,
poked a finger
through a hole
and she touched
his finger with hers.

No, unless we
arrange to meet
some place
in the school
at lunchtime.

Yes, but where?
She said,
getting her lips
as close to the fence
as was possible.

He leaned in closer
their lips touched
between the small gap
in the wire fence.

Gym?
He suggested.

Too busy,
she replied,
always keep-fit freaks
in there lunchtimes.

He mused feeling
her lips again.

Warm, wet.

A bell rang.

They parted
and she said,
look out for me.

He nodded
and the girls lined up
in classes.

He walked
off quickly
into the boys playground
around the school building,
thinking of her,
sensing the dampness
of her lips on his,
taking one last glimpse
of her as he passed,
the bell
was still ringing,
but he couldn't
be arsed.

Stop your silent staring!
Don't judge me!
You with your curves,
And your wooden expression,
I know I haven't spent the time with you I promised myself I'd spend,
I miss our casting about,
Our private times, my friend.
It was nice visiting with you at the island shelter today.
Singing songs of truth and loneliness,
Drumming on your back...
Strangling you a little as I plucked your sweetest notes,
Your tones blending with the birds and the babbling creek,
I'll spend more lunchtimes with you

soon

I promise.

I made her in the mornings
A *** of tea for two.
I loved her twice at lunchtimes
Oh how everything grew.
I left her in the evenings
To find her something new.
I kissed her in the twilight
She walked me in the dew.

Chicken, fried,
and collard greens,
with bacon and onions,
a pinch of sugar and salt.

Sweet Tea,
brewing in the sun,
and homemade pies cooling,
in the springtimes window.

The smell of cornbread,
baking up golden crisp,
buttered and honeyed,
a *** of pintos bubbling.

Children run and play
in their Sunday's best,
while mother's fuss,
about not getting *****.

Ham, and blackeyed peas,
green and congealed salads,
all brought out,
red and white checked cloth.

Sunday lunchtimes,
after church,
potlucks of yore,
I miss the desserts.