Life Beyond the Screen by A. Television

Discarded TV

 

I was born of a conveyor belt

in a factory line, in to a box,

a blueprint baby you brought home

and set in a cradle before the fire.

 

Happily we grew old together as I threw

my flickering campfire light so bright

that the cold hearth lay forgotten.

You swept my brow of gathering dust

as the porcelain ballerina grew greyer

and we laughed at my portraits,

laughed dust clouds for entire years

as the skeleton clock wound down

on the mantel – its rotation slowed

as time itself grew old and seized.

 

The credits rolled on.

We were golden together.

 

For our anniversary;

you dumped me in a black plastic bag,

moved a skinny bitch in to replace me

but I knew she was coming as

I once knew the red button

of your tender caress, my controller,

before you left me out on the kerb

to the mercy of furry cocked legs,

smashed and unloved in the bin,

cursed by the un-gloved rubbish men.

Advertisements

Read, Wild and Blew

Big Ben and birds on newspaper. London.

 

The wicked paper window,

flaps down a tarmac stream,

wraps colourfully a lamppost

displays, vibrant and obscene

tantalising, tales flicker fleeting,

a thousand blinking stories

winking white at passers-by,

hinting at once-golden glories,

with a murderous, glinting eye,

cantankerous and caterwauling,

pulling Gods down from the sky

hawking squawking pulpy lies,

 

and though it lies now broken

the living window never dies.

 

 

Picture by Roberta Justin, available to buy at: http://www.pinterest.com/pin/55802482856281813/

 

 

 

 

You’d Need a License Anyway

 

Press keys to appease your employer,

tap tap tap like a rat for your tea,

maximising and minimising windows,

it’s important your colleagues don’t see.

Twitch-clicking becomes instinctive,

a spasm that covers your tracks

so that you can read the BBC website

or look at amusing pictures of cats.

 

Stand up, sit down,

it’s your own choice.

 

That’s right, I might surf incognito

with a polyester seat at my back,

smuggling time like a cyberspace pirate,

exchanging minutes of my life for cash,

but doing it in style, on my own terms…

Yeah right, how pathetic is that?

Writing rubbish like this for my sanity,

lamely rebelling for fear I might crack.

 

Stand up, sit down.

it’s your own choice,

but get your work done,

don’t eat a shotgun.

 

HA HA HA! Have you seen that meme?

HO HO HO! Look at my screen!

HA HA HA! See what I bought!

HO HO HO! Isn’t life short?

 

Tap tap tap, like a dancing bear,

don’t you know that nobody cares?

Don’t you know we’re all the same?

Don’t you know that this is no game?

Don’t you know you’re just a name?

Don’t you know we built this cage?

Don’t you know we made this maze?

Tap tap tap, suppress your rage.

 

Stand up, sit down,

it’s your own choice,

but get your work done,

don’t eat a shotgun.

 

Of course you’re bored,

it’s fucking boring!

Of course you’re bored,

at least you’re not dead.

 

Reservoir (Minus the Dogs)

The lake shimmers, side to side

it glimmers, the topaz sky

held in its eye as a duck

swims across the still sheet,

breaking glass in its wake.

A goose approaches

up the concrete landing ramp

orange webbed feet stamp,

the waddling of its tail white

cotton reflects in my t-shirt.

Orange beak hisses welcome,

hisses for bits of bread

which are carefully thrown.

Blue eyes deep as the water

catch the sun in a cloud break,

tongue clicking in the breeze

like a loose flagpole. Children shout,

chasing green head brown ducks

that spread purple-striped wings

to escape excited chatter –

they conquer all matter

as they soar in the air,

as they swim through a swell,

as they waddle towards us

dinosaurs have inherited the Earth.