and no one notices Twit is
not dead and is live-tweeting Twit’s
funeral because everyone
is live-tweeting Twit’s funeral.
Twit leads the procession to Twit’s
gravesite. On the way Twit crashes
and dies, Twit crashes and crashes
and dies. Now Twit is throwing dirt
on Twit’s casket, Twit is lowered
into the ground, Twit gets back in
Twit’s car, it explodes, Twit re-starts
Twit’s car, it explodes, Twit steps on
the gas, Twit tweets, Twit rushes back
to Twit’s funeral, crashes, dies,
Twit live-tweets Twit’s own funeral.
No one notices.
About the Poem
As Twitter keeps (as of this writing) failing to die, the live-tweeting of Twitter’s death that increasingly consumes Twitter becomes increasingly surreal.
About the Author
Matthew King used to teach philosophy at York University in Toronto. He now lives in what Al Purdy called “the country north of Belleville”, where he tries to grow things, counts birds, takes pictures of flowers with bugs on them, and walks a rope bridge between the neighbouring mountaintops of philosophy and poetry. His photos and links to his poems can be found at birdsandbeesandblooms.com.