“All the world’s a stage”*
On television I am but an actor:
Scream, cry, be a baby forever.
There is no audience on television.
No one to respond to, nothing to relate to
Plastic bag and dustbin people
That let me pout garbage into
Apart. The sensuous feminine wholesome to its core
Romanticized beyond regret or physical or spiritual justice.
If I only had one life it would be lived, vivified outside,
As animals, primates, rodents, scoundrels of potent Eden
To whom I carelessly dictate truth, trust and carnal envy,
People my disordered box in Technicolor.
Dressing for dinner and afters fashioned with transistors
Transmitting fate. Orwell. Not a sound now you hear
A whisper that’s the news,
Static, pheromones to apes.
*As You Like It, Act II, Scene VII by William Shakespeare