Delta Phos b.
(Delta Phos b. is a protein in the brain associated with addiction.)
Digital harem eroding will power,
fucking with the frontal cortex.
Alone and voyeuristic, hermetically sealed
in the anonymity of webcam dark
confessional box, tomb of a hot bedroom.
O pornocopia. Schools of bodies
open before our helpless sight.
Endless novelty in new windows.
Playboy, what have you done to us?
Every candy on offer
buxom mistress dominatrix
double entry fist pumping
rim shot vanilla extract.
Shock horror schools of Lolitas, undressing.
Tadzios in tight fit Speedos,
with sunlit smooth caramel torso.
Housewives in loose lace, stroking
incomprehensible geological rocks.
Masturbating a miracle, glittering splashes
of jizm into innocent white handkerchiefs.
Lonely isolate men in solitary decade rooms
dreaming of ice cream Monroes.
Boys fapping athletic over heavenly body
imagery of airbrush illusion.
Mature Vixen toys with desire in dungeons
of pay-per-view vagina churches.
Instantaneous pederasts at the touch of a button.
Older female dominates cam-shy boy in Heaven.
Gerbil geek searches for ladyboys
with suicidal clouds of loathing hanging.
Octopus clitorises swallow the screen wide.
The mouse of the brain spins
on the reward wheel of its system;
every jerk-off cements a neural pathway.
Internet unconscious streamer
of every fleeing desire.
We huddle round your tabernacle
illuminations, seeking an answer
to the mystery of sexual identity.
Great unconscious shadow
of internet search engine.
Every dark thought googled
in secret vaults of shame.
We drink from you, endless,
fountain of perversion,
attached inescapably to wifi's connectivity.
What has been seen cannot be unseen.
Innocence molested
through the all-seeing eye,
exposed to every adult sweetie.
O poor human cycle of fixation.
All feeling fragmented to a pixelation.
Our better natures smothered by impulse.
Generations of young men
pump for the protein.
Delicate sensoriums
exposed to the cameras lens.
Touched too soon
by the network’s eely finger.
What will become of simple affection
and neutral tonic of care,
when everybody is reduced
to a touch pad, sex pod, reaction?
'Delta Fos b.' from As I sit quietly, I begin to smell burning © McGuire. Reprinted by kind permission of the author and Red Squirrel Press, 2014.
(Delta Phos b. is a protein in the brain associated with addiction.)
Digital harem eroding will power,
fucking with the frontal cortex.
Alone and voyeuristic, hermetically sealed
in the anonymity of webcam dark
confessional box, tomb of a hot bedroom.
O pornocopia. Schools of bodies
open before our helpless sight.
Endless novelty in new windows.
Playboy, what have you done to us?
Every candy on offer
buxom mistress dominatrix
double entry fist pumping
rim shot vanilla extract.
Shock horror schools of Lolitas, undressing.
Tadzios in tight fit Speedos,
with sunlit smooth caramel torso.
Housewives in loose lace, stroking
incomprehensible geological rocks.
Masturbating a miracle, glittering splashes
of jizm into innocent white handkerchiefs.
Lonely isolate men in solitary decade rooms
dreaming of ice cream Monroes.
Boys fapping athletic over heavenly body
imagery of airbrush illusion.
Mature Vixen toys with desire in dungeons
of pay-per-view vagina churches.
Instantaneous pederasts at the touch of a button.
Older female dominates cam-shy boy in Heaven.
Gerbil geek searches for ladyboys
with suicidal clouds of loathing hanging.
Octopus clitorises swallow the screen wide.
The mouse of the brain spins
on the reward wheel of its system;
every jerk-off cements a neural pathway.
Internet unconscious streamer
of every fleeing desire.
We huddle round your tabernacle
illuminations, seeking an answer
to the mystery of sexual identity.
Great unconscious shadow
of internet search engine.
Every dark thought googled
in secret vaults of shame.
We drink from you, endless,
fountain of perversion,
attached inescapably to wifi's connectivity.
What has been seen cannot be unseen.
Innocence molested
through the all-seeing eye,
exposed to every adult sweetie.
O poor human cycle of fixation.
All feeling fragmented to a pixelation.
Our better natures smothered by impulse.
Generations of young men
pump for the protein.
Delicate sensoriums
exposed to the cameras lens.
Touched too soon
by the network’s eely finger.
What will become of simple affection
and neutral tonic of care,
when everybody is reduced
to a touch pad, sex pod, reaction?
'Delta Fos b.' from As I sit quietly, I begin to smell burning © McGuire. Reprinted by kind permission of the author and Red Squirrel Press, 2014.
Listen to McGuire read and discuss his poetry on the Scottish Poetry Library podcast.
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Watch McGuire read his work.
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McGuire reads his poem 'Delta Fos b.'
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McGuire reads his poem 'The Glesgae Boys'.
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