Telly Makes Us
The gridded tower on Winter Hill
caps a corncob of narrative command.
The seemingly benign tones tinkle
out the acceptance and the sacrifice
of what it is to want to want this way.
To get to the facts, the truth, the
reasons-behind is only a means of
making us the square root of quantity.
Those that have arrived here to bite
our ears with dulcet skittishness
are only here to temporalise hell.
They are patented to arrive at this knoll
of mock development and arrayed in
a set series of serried limbos they
fund a repugnant dumb smugness.