If we believe what we see on late night TV,
Then the only thing people watch on light night TV
The gang member watching hyenas on Discovery.
The drug addict glued to White Christmas,
The junior statesman prone in front of Night of the Living Dead.
The jilted romantic trapped between channels,
each broadcasting a monochrome clinch:
Darling, I….don’t ever…hold me, Rupert…promise me…. never, understand?
A sick kid stares into the holiday box
When a face looks like a colouring
Murders are trapped in feedback loops;
Victims watching victims watching victims.
The Dad, roaring at slapstick,
While the son digs his nails into the carpet.
A sleeping weatherman, bathed in static,
The test card whistling like a heart monitor.
So it’s galling sometimes,
when I follow the trail of radiation
into the small of the lounge
and ask you what you’re watching
and you turn to me in your snow-drift shirt
with the pepperoni print
and your eyes like Acme anvils
and you reply, Richard Hammond’s Blast Lab.
Richard Hammond’s Blast Lab.