A luminously seductive face
Glares into a million faces.
A million homes.
TV fans stare back into the deep within -
Entranced by its small pleasures.
Too soon beguiled by the sharp screen.
As they sit… as we sit, deep down the settee’s comfort,
Neo-Medusa turns all to stone.
We are dead stones.
Passively, parasitically, we flaccid TV-slaves consume its pure datum.
Get fat on its commonplace vision; not on our own.
Now we are snared by a vicious glow.
We suck TV-dummy for comfort. For Freudian pleasure.
We see it as our ever present, but ever false, friend.
Straight after a switch-off (a bold gesture, if timed before bedtime),
We face TV-silence; and we are not amused.
The silence is sullen.
It pounds our heads.
We fear what’s within it.
We fear that rare silence.
What’s with it, this TV-silence?
Well, our hidden, real isolation.
The void, un-spruced, just being there.
Our tacit misery.
What’s on TV tonight then?