Wring a ling
ding ding
a single octave jingle tracks
the swathe of camera one attacking
centre stage in aid
of echoless clapping
and the captain our captain
peeps out his mouse hole,
with smooth reiteration
from his mouth h***
about the weather
down in Iowa where three of five
delighted guests
all hail from incidentally, and
isn’t that the most relaxing way
of revving up this
neon maelstrom into
a calamitous bargain bucket charging
only flakes of epidermal anonymity per spin.
Rigging beams down
saturated light
elucidating bright chromatic blur
between encircled flesh
and royal purple set design,
as an ovulating data analyst sounds off
the first kalashnikov clatter
into triple digit territory
then a second contestant
etcetera
until
every
tallied
circle validates
a finalist whose prophesied arrival
activates the crux of their observers’
hateful dissonance.
The jingle lowers pitch and adds a seventh
indicating network currency at stake
then during the commercial break
deserted lecterns
fall beneath
a metamorphic outburst
of this consequential gameplay;
colour palettes fixate on their quintessential tone
to splash against
the walls of living rooms
in which the final klaxon signalling defeat
commands relief
and empty handed
homebound non-anomalies
face warm obliteration
from the next half hour segment.
written after watching one too many game shows
while in bed with a fever...
