La Belle Au Bois Dormant. Poem by Alistair Plint

"all in a single day" they say.
I walk
slouched
bored to death with it
thinking, beer and hamburgers
leaving the imagery
to the old folk.

The thing with old people-
they don't believe.
Doesn't matter how many times
you reiterate a simple thing,
they look at you
in long discussion.

A remote server connection
is their own desktop;
touch screens need to be pounded
until glass fragments slither
mirroring finger-tips,
as sleeping beauty
texts love notes
in blood
across her bedroom wall.

All in a single day
the strongest beast
can transform into a panzy prince,
in the cruel death of passion
dripping blood from the mouths
of pens
wearing diapers
and notebooks filling drips.

All in a single day, the
treasures of your creativity
art in your talents
craft in your science
can disintegrate

a fragment of a needle
on a spinning wheel
re-worked
and re-welded
by Brothers Grimm
until
nothing is left.

Nothing
- but a single
full stop
in a world
of punctuation.