The Lament of Jimmy A. Prufrock — a 21st Century Perspective

I love T. S. Eliot. But a while back, I realized that my favorite Eliot poem, “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,” does not speak to modern readers.

So I took it upon myself to rewrite it. Please note, although the original poem is in the public domain in most countries — I avoided that potential hurdle by assuring that there is NO plagiarism in this version.

The Lament of Jimmy A. Prufrock — a 21st Century Perspective

Photo by Derek Lee on Unsplash

Let’s go, now, while it’s still light outside. After all, we played Half-Life so deep into last night our senses are dulled — half-anesthetized. Let’s go, down this street of half-empty restaurants and stores, through a maelstrom of food bikes dashing door to door.

While above our heads in condo unit fifty-three oh five the occupant is locked up tight inside logging onto interactive bliss, with Bedelia, who spreads her juicy virtual lips and blows a kiss.

Round the corner, endangered revellers strive to fill the dance floor and revive — the local music vibe whose last lingering notes were played before the patrons were conceived. …so worn by time, eroded channels warp the tile.

In the hall the strangers come and go speaking of Gucci and Tarantino.

Outside, dog piss turns the snowbanks yellow beneath grime-caked sills where the car exhaust bellows. Between them, stylized dayglo tags are scrawled spray-bombed by the disenfranchised — across the walls. Weeks of dissolution, colour-dusted on the dirt, where the concrete slabs descend into the earth. And rise up to where smog curls around billboards Reaching for the sky – both the pictured mother and her infant child. smile behind Movember moustaches.

We’re always running out of time, it seems I need to hurry — to wipe the wet graffiti from my many screens before it dries and obscures my view of Messenger, What’s App and Zoom. All mumbling as if they’re in another room. It takes time to follow and to ghost and time to mouse and thumb-type posts to all who LOL and leave emojis on my wall. After all, who has time to delete a thousand, thousand spams or sort through selfies in search of some that tag me. Who has time to Tik-Tok through someone else’s aimless days? Better to go out for a pizza and a smoke that curls around my shoulders like an acrid cloak Rubbing its soft pink belly across my bleary eyes to obscure my meta-feeds and all the lies.

In the hall the strangers come and go speaking of Gucci and Tarantino.

I’m running out of time to wonder if I dare – It’s time to dare already! Dare to take the elevator down, my bald patch reflected off the mirrors I’m trapped within. The other occupants will look away, none notice, nor do they say that my hair is getting thin. None will note my Prada coat or the Porsche in my parking stall (distracted I surmise by the golden Lamborghini parked beside).

Some may ask why I am so loud, and silently accuse me of putting the universe on hold. I check my phone to see if there is time to set a calendar reminder or alarm that I can erase without intention – ignore without contravention of the unread, unspoken rules.

No one knows what I have known at all, Unless I post it on my wall, Resigned that no one else will read it. Does it matter if I measure out my life in post-it notes, coffee spoons, or lost passwords? Where should I go?

I’m missing all those views already, having lost the algorithm before the internet was born. And yet am borne on a pixelated tide My life flashes off and on, unsteady and in ever-scrolling columns that divide, invisible ads from what I pinned, wriggling to my wall. What should I do?

I don’t know what to do at all. I’ll have to find a how-to video to find out how to spit out the compost of my hours and my days. I have shopped online already, and filled my cart with virtual goods to fill my longings. And have bid them come to me. And have watched them all undress, Their smooth and no-doubt perfumed flesh, remote, so I cannot press it to my chest. They only know me by my credit-card (“Oh, hello there, credit card!”)

At dusk, I wander through the alleys, in search of hidden doorways, and find a soft parade of homeless folks in ragged coats, Filled with regret that they won’t get to fret through many more days. I might have been a scissor-wielding tailor, gliding across a salon floor to an ornate dresser. Watching them bogart their joints, they don’t share their spliffs at all.

My lack of purpose sprawls like a sleeping cockapoo On the floor beside me. I stroke it, feed it biscuits, and whisper in its ear. It hears but never listens.

In the hall the strangers come and go speaking of Gucci and Tarantino.

I wonder if I am strong enough to push this moment to the brink, The precipice that I have dreamed and often fallen over. The instant of my greatness gone in a flash. I have heard the alerts blaring on my phone. Watched the eternal desk clerk close my file – even while I search my wallet for ID that is no longer there. My identity is compromised again.

Would you remind me of my name along the way – say, in the traffic while on my long commute? Between the honks let’s talk about you and me. Or should I instead push the button and end the conversation with a grin. and take the Porsche on a shorter spin? My corneas were frozen but are now thawed so I can see the road ahead again. While your voice comes crackling through the smog. “I don’t think you understand. You don’t understand at all.”

Would it be of any use at all to look for treasure long after you defeat the final boss? Beyond the sequel and Survivor season 108? There’s so much to say, but nothing to debate. What if a toxic virus makes the text run off your screen, would it be of any use at all. To turn your gaze into the seething traffic, and opening the window, shout, “I don’t think any of you understand. You’re not listening at all!”

Sorry, I am neither Wonder Woman nor the mighty Thor. I am somewhat lower on the pantheon; a cosplay nerd set up to fall, and be trampled by the teeming herd. A conduit, a necessary tool, to keep the audience informed about what has gone before to bring us here. What storms are due, what threats unleashed, what cancers. I am full of explanations, yet lack in answers. Sometimes they come right out and cast me as a minion or a clown. I am losing touch, forgetting passwords by the bunch Falling for obvious scams like a fool. What can I do, dye my grey hair pink or blue? Can I still put on my dancing shoes and strut about the rooftop pools?

I have seen the unicorns jumping, one by one. Though I’m too high to hear them hit the ground. I used to think that unicorns had wings, but yet, no horny Pegasus came ‘round. Now I search for shafts of sunlight in the clouds and loudly tell myself “Don’t look down” at the bloody splotches on the sidewalk far below. The voice on my satellite radio speaks but will not let me know what else is going down.

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