When The TV Died

Somebody I know is behind me.
I can feel them.
I walk with hectic feet to get away.

Like tweaker guy.
He still walks upstairs with hectic feet.
And wears mirrored sunglasses in the rain.

Like ‘The Man Who Fell to Earth’.
Except he only falls from upstairs.

We all ran out onto the landing the day the TV died.
A volley of panic and confusion.

He told me he watches travel shows.
He goes around the world up there.
No wonder I can hear him.

He wears out the carpet.
He wears out me.

I hate noise.
But am lost without the static.
There is nothing to drown out the headache.

I sit in the chair.
A little dual playing out in my head.

What do I want.

It is too much to wait for the deciding shot.

I trim off little pieces of myself and wash them down the sink.
Clip. Clip. Clip.
The sound of my decomposition.

I cannot stand the smell at night.
I cannot stand to look.

And yet I collect a thousand pictures and stare.

Look how pretty.
Look how clever.

So clever my fingers can trace out different powders in the dark.

Know the difference between shapes that seem identical.
Know the difference between colours.
Know how each one will taste just by smelling the cloud which erupts on the snap.

It is funny how each little difference has led me to this one place

This one place where every thought leads to the same feeling.
Where there are a thousand words and only one meaning.

I think about this.
When the TV gets cold.

I dare you to be as pretty as me.
As clever as me.

Try it once.
Multiply by 365. By 17.
Then tell me it’s ok.

Tell me you can breathe and swallow and think about the world.

Tell me that you do not want to rest in the static and dust.

Tell me if there is anything left at all.