Antisocial Networking Poem by Christopher Woodall

This warrior town, with pitted chain mail,
Sits haunted on the shore and stares out to sea,
Flattened and rusted from past industry
Flowered with bruises and dreams that will fail.
In his darkest hour the children call out
But their faith in authority had gone
When the gulls and the trade winds moved on
So among their sad selves they type and shout,
And a gangrene forms in the old towns limbs
An atavistic culture, sink or swim
Because to cooperate is to die.
Its knives in small fists, pro-suicide sites
The breath of the town is death slow tonight
His victories only memories, trapped inside.