TV can shape ambition
make it real
fill the sky
paint the stars
and fight the cause of wrinkles while you sleep
It can bend truth dangerously close
to the exfoliating daily wash control programme of
a dying snowman at the end of a telephone
who will quote your car a downhill assist and kick
start ascent system in a uniquely cold flake way
Onscreen is a dedicated helpline of understanding
bankers who'll top up your account with soap opera
statements and pile into the night with vitally alive hair
clean, full, thick, noticeably luscious
and with ten times more skin loving natural oils that make
washing it easy and fun to play with at the hair experts.
The tube'll get you buzzing on the edge of bus seats
and do voodoo for all who dare think that
a pasta fairy’s cupboard
is full of empty headed tall bossomed bore guys
wooing you with their songbird injection.
But TV won't inoculate against the devil's buzz
or work at stopping
the man next door from screaming into the night
delusional drug induced worries of what will occur
when death comes laughing to take hold
and cut his life like a knife slicing through
the light he shies from.
Next door Noel's a daytime prince and pretend
fool. A blind, deaf and dumb courtier of Armageddon
weeping to the beat of a preacher selling salvation
five times a week. He spends his days praying god's
not forgotten to book him a seat in the VIP suite of heaven
and practicing his talk with St. Peter of repenting his sins
for the price of a shoulder to cry on, as he questions why
life never went according to plan during his time asking
voices for the reason why he heard them speak to him
and if their creator will spare him for being unable to
live as a man who made the world shake or take notice
of how he lived or what he did when the sun shone itself
present and correct as he hid from love in the shadows
and undergrowth, baying the tune of lunacy and fading
from life’s first breath.
Coirí Filíochtaat
http://irishpoetry.blogspot.ca/
