Stephen Philip Druce… Television Apocalypse

 

Television Apocalypse

Television apocalypse –
the anarchic celebration,
the annihilationv
of the sweet invention,
now the devil`s mesmerising
mechanism,
television – a poisonous snake
slithering in a slime
on a prime time scour,
we are furniture leaches
for them to devour,
its venom renders
us dense to digest
mindless soaps for dopes
with subliminal hidden agenda`s,
with its sexist, most
politically correctist,
ham over-actors
for uncultured cattle
in a trough of x-factors,
the vultured staring,
the documentary violence
overbearing, the chicken korma
spilt in the t.v. remote battle
in the living room corner, five
star movies long vacated
for one star turkey`s
to feed the perceived
uneducated,
gunshots wake up
babies in their cots, etched
nightmares on the kids not
in bed yet, watch indiscretions
before the watershed, the university set
in unamusing stand up comedy –
abusing the slot, saved by
the canned laughter
we can all spot,
comedy shows discriminate
the working class
and are so unfunny
you need to smoke
grass,
the random flick through
of the channels – a bad decision,
nudity on when the parents
are there, an unexpected
surgeon`s incision scare,
television –
the five minutes of fame
ambition, to be a celebrity
with only the brains for
infantile games, showbiz shames
television –
sport overkill, overspill,
no fun – overdone,
television hurts –
its breaking twenty four hour
news, coshes a brainwashed bruise
upon my t.v. weary head,
twenty four minute adverts
kill me dead,
traffic cop shows with
cameras persecute the motorist
and lecture headmaster style,
twist the driver`s words and
put them in a statement file,
stop them without probable cause –
just to harass, no consent to search
but the cop just ignores and expects
them to kiss his ass, television –
deserved of our derision, the over-hype,
the over-sell, the over-ripe, the t.v. hell,
but now it`s time to intervene, let`s
smash up the old, the new, the portable
and the flat screen, this cheap, crude
heap of repeated multi-channels grim,
this sacrilege is a sin.

 

Stephen Philip Druce is a poet/humour poet/ humour essayist published in the UK, USA, Canada and India. In August 2015 he signed an ebook deal with Tri Screen Connection in The USA – with his British style humour book of Absurd and nonsensical essays – QUIRKY SHORTS. link here – http://www.web-e-books.com/index.php#load?type=author&product=62

To hear Stephen read his poems/humour poems link here http://youtu.be/nLBrHCkeSMg

Copyright © 2016 by Stephen Philip Druce

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Advertisements

Erin J. Jones… Short-term Collateral

 

Short-term Collateral

I had been there before, but I had never liked it. Nobody ever does. I did not seem right, it did not seem fair, yet it was legal and sometimes necessary. Where I stood was before the counter of a pawn shop. I looked around, as I waited, at the displays filled with musical instruments, firearms, televisions, jewelry, and miscellaneous this and that. It was a place of hope and second chances, broken hearts, and broken dreams.

I was going to start a new job in a couple of days and it would be at least two weeks before I would see a paycheck from it. It had been too long since I had seen the last one. I was not in dire straits by any means nor was l looking for a handout. I just needed enough for some gas and groceries. I just needed enough to help get me by until the first paycheck came in and then I would be sitting pretty again. Say what you will about your friendly hometown banker. He is a nice guy, professional, well educated, but he will not let you hold a twenty until payday. He does not do small, short-term loans. Family and friends are not always an option. Even if they are willing to help, it can be a hard line to cross.

The customer in front of me finished his business and headed for the door. I stepped forward and was greeted in a friendly manner by the gentleman behind the counter. Slightly embarrassed, I explained my situation to him and handed him my pistol. He took it and inspected it in a calm, professional manner. It wasn’t the best pistol that I owned, but it was my favorite. It was a .380 caliber with a combat grip and two seven shot magazines. I had bought it from another pawn shop two or three years earlier. Today my $300 investment was good collateral for $50 dollar loan. My heart sank and I swallowed a little pride. I understood it was only business on their part. There was overhead to take care of, taxes, and various laws that came into play. I knew that if I defaulted and failed to pay back the loan, they had to be able to sell it at a profit.

I completed the paperwork and accepted the money-it was just what I needed- enough for some gas and some groceries. It did not seem right, it did not seem fair, but it was necessary.

 

Erin Jones was born in Wisconsin and raised in Arkansas. After graduating high school he went off to college, dropped out of college, and enlisted in the U.S. Army where he served as a cavalry scout. Returning to college, he graduated from the University of Arkansas with B.A.s in communication and economics. Today he works as a mild-mannered salesperson. He has published in Criminal Class Review and Poesia. In his free time he collects beer cans and brewerianna.

Copyright © 2016 by Erin J. Jones

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jason Constantine Ford… Returning to Mount Everest

 

Returning to Mount Everest

A single picture captures our faces below the sun

Upon a mountain we climbed together as one.

Our early moments of standing near clouds are enthroned in time

As we are looking back to achievement sublime.

Although the glory of this event has passed away,

Our memories of climbing the mountain are ones that stay.

Retracing our steps before we reached the mountain peak,

We travel back to times of either being strong or weak.

A time when we considered returning to the mountain’s base

Halfway through our climb is fading trace by trace.

Our time of emotional weakness is being replaced

With memories linked to a scene where past doubts are defaced.

Memories of reaching the mountain’s peak are sparks that ignite

The radiance of seeing the world from its’ greatest height.

 

Copyright © 2016 by Jason Constantine Ford

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jason Visconti… If My Life Were A Sport I Would Draw

 

If My Life Were A Sport I Would Draw

And no one would contest it–

The balancing beams would be loved in their scales–

No one would scratch and no one would add–

No one would be their own counsel and plead–

The scoreboard would show an admission of deed.

 

Jason Visconti lives in the New York area where he is currently doing data entry work. He has been published in many journals including most recently “Ink Sweat And Tears”, “Mad Swirl”, and “Indigo Rising”. He enjoys the poetry of Billy Collins and Sharon Olds.

Copyright © 2016 by Jason Visconti