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The world plants a desire,
and tells me I must douse its fire.
But this morning I toasted some bread
and read a Japanese poem about geese,
and I realised that all the time I lease
to smartphones and buying things
could be simply spent with a coffee, reading
a text that makes my bleeding heart sing.
Aa Harvey Jun 2018
Adverts killed the T.V. star.

T.V. for the masses; there is money to be made.
Five minutes into a programme there comes a three minute delay.
Cut a scene in half,
So they can advertise, without ever being smart.
We must annoy to be memorable;
We are creating art.
You **** the life out of the T.V. and all you say becomes a blur.
We must all fast forward through all the adverts,
Or put the T.V. on mute to avoid their words.

You gave away your soul so you could ruin the T.V.
And now you have destroyed the internet and made it so slow!
Bug’s and stuff to make you money.
You ruin everything you touch.
You have no soul,
So stay away from me.

(C)2017 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Aa Harvey Jun 2018

People complain about constant sponsorship,

But continue to be a consumer.

People only tell the truth if it’s beneficial,

Or maybe that’s just a vicious rumour.

(C)2013 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Aa Harvey Jun 2018

Popular culture is so inconsequential;
All I see, I am growing to hate.
The time has come for someone to become beneficial;
Artificial is no longer needed.
You are starting to grate, without ever being great.

Faces without names, names without faces;
Relevance has never been so relevant.
Giving money to people who have not had to make it.
Share the wealth and do not care so much about yourself;
Spend the money before your fame is spent.

Debt collectors on the T.V., movie stars in between the films.
I fast forward and pay no interest to any adverts.
T.V. is tainted and full of people faking it; what is this?
Empty people with shallow sights.  What are you worth?

The rich get richer and their greed buys them more power;
The poor are still kept down like they were yesterday.
Nothing changes for the better; we are living by the hour.
Repeat your actions, we lack clarification;
Politicians have nothing to say.

In a depressing world, how do I raise a smile or a child?
All that has come before has affected my mind.
You are pathetically pathetic and you’re not even and so very trying!
Self-importance is praised in these darkest of times
And the rocket men have fallen from the sky.

Old songs remind us of what we used to have;
One hit blunders, Andy Warhol’s sad quote.
Strive for perfection
And do not just accept the substandard woman or man.
There are only a few diamonds in this mine of music;
T.V. is no longer worth watching and who is this star of the show?

(C)2016 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Aa Harvey Jun 2018
We need to talk

I’ve got a bruise in the shape of Tom Cruise;
It’s on my back next to the Charlie Sheen tattoo.
It’s time I stopped picturing all these actors,
But still I see Bruce Willis’ face on all the posters.

Cameron Diaz is listening to jazz
And I’ll thank her please if she will give me a lap dance.
I drop my pants looking for some kind of romance,
But all I find is someone playing Una Mas.

I wouldn’t normally mind,
But they are playing way out of key
And woe is me if I can’t get what I need to make me happy;
I need to watch Mr. Bean.

Watching Van Damme for five whole seconds;
That’s enough of that, I surely do reckon.
You can’t sell me anything in your television adverts.
If I need something I will buy it;
To your lies I will not listen.

Movie stars and five star ratings.
Who do I complain to about talk show hosts,
Who act like they are dating,
The person they interview?
Get to the real questions;
We have had enough of you
And your luvvie ways,
Telling them they are great.

Why not ask them about their drugs habits?
Their exes, their fights and headline stories?
You smile, you fake, you are in love; you idiot.
An actor is just a man or a woman,
An interviewer is just a puppet.

(C)2016 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
I can still remember the weather, it was your weather, as the whole day was yours as well.  

You called me Tuesday lunchtime. I tell you this so you might know who I am. I expect you call many people on a Tuesday lunchtime so I am nothing special to you. The cup-a-soup chicken dust was in the mug and particles were floating about in the light. The kettle flip was down and the water was just at that bit, post bubbling before the flip kicks up again to show it’s done. Butter out and open, ready and still messy with crumbs like some cross section of limestone showing its history. I could smell the toast was nearly toasted too. Everything was coming to a head, even the clock was crawling close to the exact hour. All these processes were funneling back together into one task, like streams regrouping in a river. I was focussing hard enough that I could feel seconds, and that is when you called.

“Hello, is this Mr. Innes-Jones?”
You said it in one of those recycled voices, and that hurt. I could already see your eyes in my head, I'm a fast visualiser, but with the way that you spoke, scripted, I couldn’t see any life in them. I could see your finger wrapping and unwrapping itself in the phone chord and I could smell complimentary coffee on your breath.

“Speaking,” I said, muting the television, cutting the talk show’s announcement short as to who the father is. He put his head in his hands and the woman opposite stood shouting and pointing downwards at him like a dictator, which, on this program, usually means he, is in fact, partaking in the wonderful adventure of parenthood.

“Are you the homeowner Mr. Innes-Jones?” God, if you could only call me Andy. If only you could say my name as if you were asking me what’s in the fridge, or telling me to move my legs so you could get in close on the couch. I know it’s two syllables but it’s still not too difficult a name to say and in my wildest dreams, sigh.

“Yes, I am and call me… tell me what this call is in regards to.” I’m sorry to be so rude and direct, it still kills me that I may have cut some of your voice from my life by getting straight to the point but I realised it was far too forward for us to be on a first name basis, when, to you, I’m a stranger. I was like a car that swerves and then has to control itself. You could hang up any moment and lose a sales deal, but I could lose you.

“Of course sir.” Sir is worse than Mr. Innes-Jones.

“My name’s Christine.” Christine. You said something else afterward about solar panels but I was still stuck there. Stuck there wondering whether you looked like your name, as some people do, or if you transcended it and it paled in comparison to you, just like when a star is named a number. Christine. Maybe your parents are people of faith and their conservatism in your upbringing has given you a bashful streak. Might you turn in your rotating office chair and blush in the face of a wink or a half smile? Are you a Tina in the world off of the phone? Or Chris? this is important, what is it about you which might influence people in that decision.

I focused back into your voice. I could always leave wondering for later. I’d most likely have my whole life to wonder and knowing how the memory would fade, how I would eventually have to fill it in with my substandard vision of your voice, tone, and intonation, I couldn’t let any more of you slip into static, the hum of space.

“Might you be the homeowner sir?”

“Yes, I am indeed” I wanted to ask the question back and delude myself that this was a conversation and not an interrogation, but I didn’t. The saddest three words right there.

“And you make the decisions there, correct?” “Yes, certainly do.” I’m sure that women like a man of the house, our house, though I doubt your imagination was working as hard as mine. I was still finding it hard not fall into it.

My silenced program finished on the television and you went into my electric bill. The women in the adverts disappointedly displayed their appliances, fell off ladders, came in suits to save people who did, and a myriad of other things, but they all spoke in your voice, spoke to me. Some were called Tina, some called Chris, depending on which name suited their faces. It was funny, I felt that I slightly loved all of them, in different ways, as they attempted to be you. Like this woman with the wonder-mop for example. She had a checkered shirt, and despite still being quite pretty, time had separated her jowls slightly from her chin, so I decided on the more androgynous name Chris for her, Chrissy at best, she has a life away from wonder-mops. She doesn’t spend her days in perfect lighting demonstrating to her husband and kids how, however hard you shake the thing, it still retains it’s liquid. Though I expect she probably gets one for free. I hope she does, they look quite good.

“Sir? Sir?” Chris on screen tells me, like some kind of backward echo getting louder and more real. I gave you my attention back and bear in mind I always will.  “Sorry?” “I said, are there any large trees nearby your house that may obscure sunlight to the panels?” “No.” “Any tall properties nearby to the same effect, sir?” “Can’t say so.” In my mind you were asking me for something in that way that wives do, establishing with a series of questions that there’s no real reason why we can’t have solar panels, so why don’t we. A really subtle supplication, and I played along and allowed it, just for you. I kept it to myself that I live in a basement apartment and the only light I get is when no one is walking over the grate above the front window.

— The End —