Tyrannosaurus Vex
Television - The Cancer of Society
26th August 2001
by Chronofus

The promise of time.
A bright future, a decaying future, only time will tell what fate has cast.
A human species, risen from ashes, building monuments and dreams.
On and on, building ever on, in quests of achievement.
Behind the glitter lay unbridled gears of progress,
Running wildly and blindly, held together by thought and good intention.
Nothing more than a captive community held hostage by its own creation.
Nations of hope locked into tears of despair.
And peering over, the ghosts of malice,
Watchdogs of every step, every second,
Interrogating, arguing, talking & dissecting,
Building lives, taking lives, remaking the past and cloaking the future.
So call guardians of a society, hypnotised, mesmerised by their grinning skulls,
Chattering forever, wrapped in sheaths of plastic skin,
Dry brushed to perfection, toned, manicured,
Under lit, over lit, retouched and re edited.
As hollow as their words, as fleeting as their image.
Slick as oil, and as insidious as carbon monoxide,
They flow across society in silent waves of electricity.
Even fading, snowy, breaking up and shot by lightning,
Still they clutch at the screen for every precious second of attention.
"Hear me! Hear me!" they call from the ether,
Living in dread fear that should they fall behind blackened screens,
Unseen by their slaving viewers.
Will anyone hear?
Will they care that the canopy of their wisdom should fall unseen in a forest of static?
Or will they instead see, in the blackened reflections of the mute screen,
Nothing more profound than their own reflection peering back at them like mute sentinels?
A life! A life! There for the taking.
If only they could free themselves from the spell of the neon.
To walk again among free men, free women, real people,
With open hearts, open minds, opening like petals in spring,
Blooming upon the host of humanity.
The precious gift of interaction, to touch, to smell,
To feel the emotion of contact searing across space from eye to eye,
The subtle conversations of bodies speaking without words,
Revelling only in their nearness of another beating heart.
Instead they huddle, crouched, fingers outstretched,
Tracing paths in the dust clinging to the screen.
Cries of humanity pour forth on the glowing lines.
Newsreader, soap star, weather girl,
Turn your love on me.
Wash me in your arms, your words,
Carry me away to a land I've never seen, where dreams really do come true.
Oh pity me, I can't escape, I am drawing near.
Falling in, my world lies in your heart. Take me, take me now.
No! No!
Shake your head, rinse your mind from the sirens call.
Turn back! Turn back!
Salvation lies not in blind promise,
Ravings from false prophets of doom and gloom,
Or dreams of cheery hope from the mouths of woolly headed simpletons.
Go away, go away,
Back to the void that spawned you, foul succubus of temptation,
Back to the industry that manufactured you.
Back, back, ever back.
Leave the world in peace without your infection,
Your useless knowledge, your words of promise for a future bright,
Which you, with guilty hands, will snatch away when boredom strikes,
When you fear your slaves are falling away,
Turning to a new light, on a path you haven't chosen, in the dim lands beyond your glow.
TV, sentinel of society,
Your vigil on us all has turned into a regime of oppression.
Leave us be, in peace, begone!
You riddle us like cancer, eating us from inside,
Casting doubt and despair through the supports of our hope.
You claw our feelings, dragging them forth in words.
Pulling our souls out into your screen,
Where their ghostly phantoms find a stony earth in your heart,
A barren field of imagination not meant for life.
Sexy, barbed, researched and coated in sugar,
Words and pictures made to entice us on,
Like baited flies crawling onto sticking paper, you can't let us leave.
Your tendrils worm through our bodies, leaving tunnels of hollow emotion.
You weave your strings, place your traps,
And as you motion, we dance to your tune,
Punches and Judies beneath your manipulating hand.
False dreams of choice that you have prepared for us, couched in words of illusion.
We are not meant to live in your world.
How cruel you are, how we should pity you.
Unable to flee your own electronic prison, you shroud us in it with you,
So that you won't feel alone, unlistened to, unloved.
But please, please, open your heart.
The last beleaguered remnants of humanity are beseeching you.
Show us the dignity you expect us to reflect on you.
Let us go, loosen your grip.
You will fall, you are falling,
To depths that shudder our souls.
You were meant to serve, not be served.
Make your sacrifice before we too fall into your world of illusion.
And there, spiked on your double edged words, our souls will depart,
Flaked off in small parts from the blows of your sarcasm.
Television, you nail us to a cross to bear your sins,
In atonement for eternity for the precious gift of life,
The gift we gave to you.