Pandora Revised

Within my hands, which once were clapping,

A vehicle of outrage sits, with overlapping

Tabs, these novel terms

That Shakespeare never spoke

Each one a sapping mass of dire prognoses:

Headlines thick with biased condemnations,

Red-faced diatribes and rappings

Of the outraged, in the comments,

Suitably perturbed, aghast, enraged,

Whatever gets their minds prepared for tapping.

For that's the thing, I think, this itch

That this cold rectangle of misery arouses,

From the penthouse to the ditch:

It gives us gleaming portraits of clear idylls,

Big-breast holidays and halcyon sunset reveries,

Without a thought of what grave curse it is

To WANT a doctored image.

It gives us drastic headline urgings:

Venal kings, pollution surgings,

Latent themes that signal 'Splurging

On that holiday we showed you,

On that instagrammer-influencer-

Corporate-fuckpig-sell-out's

Jealousy collage

Will make it better. Make the ceaseless discharge

End, as you see, it only can

In gaudy, far-flung fantasies.'

So you go and you stand on the sand

Who's hues are greyer, dourer, bland,

With worse restaurants than the instagrammer had,

And never any fanfare greets you there,

Beyond the sonerous washing of the waves.

'There must be some mistake!'

Life isn't like the movies, though.

Nor the instagram. Unless, of course,

Unless that harbinger of lies, within your hand

Which warps the soul, and twists the land,

And ruffles up the hackles, planned

For anger, planned for man

To feel the Devil's fire of envy fanned,

Unless with this, you, in turn, can doctor.

How swift the editing fingers!

How sure the mind that crops.

The photo, the filter, the post.

And so, you are a liar.

Behind you, your glazing eyes upon the scourge

That taketh souls, careers, and mirth,

The sea still calls, in knowing sighs,

It's gentle, sloshing disappointment

Sending you eternal soul rebirths,

Great Buddha shouts, which could undo the lies:

Jesuit epiphanies disguised as gentle lapping

Which you, oh rarified child of the phone,

Which you believe needs changing,

To better mask your tragedies,

As if the sea, or anyone, completely cares.

Pandora, Pandora, I laugh and I cry.

What have you, tempted, freed this time?