TV & I
Here's an unpublished prose poem; I'm quite facinated by the form this year:
‘Television streams through the air,’ a man said, and I suppose he is right: dense drafts of digitised ether pricked, condensed, reconstituted – ‘via verticality’; the singular wand, a conductive stasis. Every home should hallow one. There once was a woman who received aural broadcast through her teeth; not falsies but the metal of what filled them. Grits like diamonds kept her committed. She crunched her way along, avoided Front Row, discretely spelling words into a gauzy handkerchief. Repeating the gesture. I’m exhausted and curl on the sofa, holding a reverse gun up to the still blank screen. Pressing go, the pictures come alive; drones in their circuits, ripple of a story ark sullying the river. I nod it off, acquiescent to the inevitable. In silence, shot seeds have landed (the scatter of water), and those in rich loam extend thickening roots, surrounding my house. Alien cables drag me away from the sea.
‘Television streams through the air,’ a man said, and I suppose he is right: dense drafts of digitised ether pricked, condensed, reconstituted – ‘via verticality’; the singular wand, a conductive stasis. Every home should hallow one. There once was a woman who received aural broadcast through her teeth; not falsies but the metal of what filled them. Grits like diamonds kept her committed. She crunched her way along, avoided Front Row, discretely spelling words into a gauzy handkerchief. Repeating the gesture. I’m exhausted and curl on the sofa, holding a reverse gun up to the still blank screen. Pressing go, the pictures come alive; drones in their circuits, ripple of a story ark sullying the river. I nod it off, acquiescent to the inevitable. In silence, shot seeds have landed (the scatter of water), and those in rich loam extend thickening roots, surrounding my house. Alien cables drag me away from the sea.
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