NaPoWriMo 2.7: Love Song of the Goblin

The dream home of Tomorrow, in which you might find the Goblin…

It’s a two-poem day as my brain was too fried yesterday…The other (today’s) will appear later.

So, catching up with yesterday’s prompt to write a love poem to a thing, here’s my offering. It ended up quite long, so if you can stick it out – thank you, there is a ‘pay off’ and I appreciate any constructive suggestions for cuts or other edits! 🙂

 

Love Song of the Goblin

 

Such Integration:

where before, we poor

humans had to lumber through

the morning chore of tea

production, in a number

of discrete actions:

no more.

 

Such Automation:

for now, the boiling water

of morning is poured on to the teabag

of your dreams, even before

your fleshy eyelids

have flickered.

 

Sentinel of The Modern Day:

you begin your boiling ways

at precisely the allotted tick.

As we kick off our fluffy

heads and robes, gliding

into one (of two) myopically

chrome and out-damn-spot

clean family cars.

 

Such Illumination:

dissatisfied with the distant

Sun, you add your cheery

and alarming glow to the throes

of a dawn chorus of factory-produced

daylight. Springing up, along the branch

that Britain was, alert to promotion, bonus

cash. Growing on the map like a gorgeous,

bioluminescent rash.

 

Such Reanimation:

now, in pixelated times, we save up

the promise stored in your recklessly

un-energy-efficient bulbs. Half a century

– no, more – from your peak, we keep you here

(though there is scarcely space) for the idea

that there is use in you. For moments, you rejoin

the Gleaming Highway of Time. When we children

of another century, want the ambience for a birthday

do just right. We put our ear to you for a tick,

or a Frankenstein fizz of electricity. From time

to time, we invite you, nervously,

to join us at the party,

as a light.

 

 

Addendum: here is the actual sort that we have on our shelf, as a light (and never, ever a tea-making device)…

 

A 1959-60 Goblin Teasmade, like the one we have on the shelf (and for which I have a curious affection).

 

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