Consoling Myself After Your Affair
After James Tate.
My television is mocking me:
staring me into a strange proposition - the beguiling seducer -
compelling me to stare back and be sucked into its pixels.
No, [presses button] I have remote infrared power
sending out infrared beams to distant civilisations.
(It has no idea it is doing this,
it thinks that it is just sending out ‘On’ ‘Off’ ‘117’
but it is actually calling out to occupants of interplanetary craft
‘Come to Earth, invade, it’ll be fine
if you do it on a Saturday, around X-Factor time’).
I don’t need a custom kitchen or MTV or CSI or
to text flirt with real girls in my local area.
I miss you sitting next to me so badly
like ‘And Smith must score’ but even more painful,
and with that I taste the sweet fresh air,
running away from the home that you left.
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