Displaced TVs



A solitary skyscraper firework wipes a displaced TV’s smirk

And surrounds me much as showbiz – a slave to glitz not work.



And all the bodies glisten – a reflection’s substitute

For instant salivation - the fool has lost his flute.



The desert and the alcohol – the girl is a mirage

Machinations cut me deeply - the stars so bright and large.



I've patented my soul now but it’s a buyer’s market

And I’m open to all offers but I’m trying hard to hide it.



In my abject misery give me a shoulder I can cry on

Or as the bullets fly perhaps a soldier to rely on.



To be honest I don’t remember my name or origin

Do I rip like some weak fabric and am I drenched in sin?



I teeter on the edge of pinstriped tainted blues

Addicted to Earth’s oxygen – the game of win or lose.



Bugging someone’s private life for a say on juicy matters

Or huddled round an Ouija board for a séance which then flatters.



Somehow my very being is bleak, disposable at best

Like a battered long-wave radio in need of spark or zest.



A black hole grabs me by the throat – I’m such a hungry ghost

I must have more possessions, I long to have the most.




Is mindfulness the buzzword of the bitter middle-class?

Trappings wrapped around us as the starving file past.



If now is so much better than my imagination

Why do I drift and suffocate and give in to stagnation.



A chorus line of over made up wannabe believers

Belt out a call for substance like some lost over achievers.



Does this cell reflect my pure love - an inner-sanctuary?

Is the stylus on my record deck sticking just for me?



If one more person tells me to see existence inwardly

I may chop down the forest so they can’t hug a tree.



Where to start really? Just where can we begin?

Footsteps in the interlude – the ice on which we spin.



If the past can trick me every night when I look up at the sky

Perhaps spacemen were an afterthought – the ultimate fake high.