The Wind Blows
I can feel on the tip of the tongue of the wind,
The last branch it brushed, the last leaf licked,
It smothers my face laced with journeys past,
But the memory never lasts, more than a gust.
Besides, I’ve been places too;
Perhaps the wind will carry my expression into the path of you…
If that were to happen now, as the the wind shifts from east to west,
Mary Poppins certainly wouldn’t being impressed.
Because it’s with a grunt that I fall victim to the winds cheap trick,
As down my bicycle gears click,
And a hill that once flowed like a stream,
Now feels as flat as a bowling green.
And although I could never scream as loud as you,
Wind, you pierce me as you pass through.
Levelling downhill’s, steepening ups,
A breeze could never be enough.
But, blissfully unaware of my disdain,
You animate plastic bags asleep in the drain,
And I realise as you fly by me,
The part of you I touched today,
May never again in all my life,
As you puff and blow away.
See See TV
I need grant myself no permission,
To screen the guide for the days television.
It’s no mission, as I go fishin’, for the stimulation of my senses that look and listen.
But listen hear, kids, you should fear, watching the box way to near;
You’ll come over awfully queer; your eyes will dry out and start to tear.
And it’s in the reflection of my glazed over glassies,
That you can see that I’m watching lassie,
Then the never-ending Eastenders and a doc on kids of benders, and mortgage lenders, and scraphead fenders, police car hunts and wildlife show grunts, the news, win a cruise, be sad, be amused,
As my thumb twitches, never stops,
This trance has no name but the dreaded channel hop.
I flick, I twitch, browse by and switch, mute it, then toot it, even pre-record it.
But in the midst of such a state I can never applaud it,
Cross out what I’ve seen on the listings – make an audit,
No show can satisfy my mind for more than a fleeting pass-me –by,
Where’s HBO when you need it, man, so much TV is dry.
But still I sit there fixated,
The room flickering and illuminated,
By the glow of a show that I don’t care for or know,
Maybe by the second half it will start to grow,
On me,
We’ll have to see,
O but Come Dine With Me,
Is starting now, over on 4,
I devour three episodes still hungry for more.
BBC 1 and 2, ITV, Channel 4 –
Terrestrial just aint enough any more.
TV galore; it’s a beast to feast on,
With HD its like it’s actually happening in my living room,
It’s like I’m sitting right here in the temple of doom.
Or fort boyard, or the crystal maze,
But right now all that’s crystal is my stony gaze,
As the floor beneath my feet goes all crazy pave,
And as my afternoon laze morphs to malaise,
What was a chill becomes a phase,
Perhaps a craze,
Or even pyschosis,
But this state is more comparable to some kind of shit hypnosis,
I’m entranced, staring through strictly come dance,
Who’s gonna click their fingers and break this trance?
I don’t think it’s going to be me…
And as I sit there vacantly,
I wonder am I watching you, or is it watching me,
Is this is a case of see see tv?
We never converse, but things often get topical,
Especially on matters like relocating someplace tropical,
But this banal monologue replaces debate,
Conversation’s never happen until it’s too late,
And the numb of the box has left me all dumb,
And I curl up on the sofa sucking my thumb.
And although within my dream,
Float around the highest quality shows on angel winged screens,
A darker imagining always interrupts,
That if I cannot give it up,
That the coroners verdict on me will be;
Cause of death; too much TV.
