The TV stands there thirsty for my soul.
Dead rectangle that disentangles thought,
Switching it off and itself on; black hole
That sucks me into inanity, caught
In networks of inactivity. Fought
But never beaten easily. Loud bores
Parade their egos, laughing at my sort
That pays their wages (crawling on all fours
By month’s end) as they pocket their applause
Or go on an all-expenses-paid stroll
On Bondi or Copacabana. Sport?
Don’t play, just watch at home; just stay indoors.
Tonight’s live poetry night, outside. I’ll roll
Onto the sofa and sell myself short.
Tue 13 Feb 2007
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