Channel Child By JLG Clift

My little brother
he knows what's
on

He's my families
TV
Guide
Never lost with
a remote in his hand

like Columbus
he has discovered
a new world
but has never left the house

skin is ashen
he looks like
a victim of
holocaust
but he
doesn't mind
he has his remote
and his wi fi
and he feels

free

his hair is oil slick black
so greasy it
changes colour with
the channel

what do u
want to watch
Joe?

his eyes
used to have
colour
but now
they are dull
when not lit
by HD

he never draws the blinds
but he sees Sky
every day
his face is
brightened by it

he knows all
about Peppa Pig
and Hackgate
and genocide
and Rastamouse
and the rich list;

Deadly

60
women raped by this
man
he tells me

'horrible, horrible'
he quotes Bill
Turnbull like
firing off
scripture

my brother is

5

years

 old

he knows more
about this world
than i ever can

a Guru for the
Naughties

his knowledge
is

universal
generational

omnipotent
within the church
of the Watershed

He is
an
On Demand
Disciple

this is not
of our world

this is
the stuff
of dreams

dreamt by
Murdered
Murdoch
minds
and sickly
Fox(es)

A transformation
is occurring

His ears
begin to merge
with our set
become antenna
to keep contact
with the world
outside
his TV

add breaks
my brother
tuts

they are like
fliers in the

Bible

to him

i want to enhance
signal Joe

my brother is
Set to be like this
forever

he doesn't care
for school, he does
not care
for anything
but TV

he sits, cross legged
a skeleton child
his skin so thin
like white tac stretched
over the bones
pinned at
the joints by
moles and
scabs.

I've watched the box
suck the
flesh from
his bones
over
the years

channel
by
channel

who am i
to stand in the
way of him
and his church?

he is a Child of
these Channels

he is
lost

without them

 i can enhance the
signal Joe

my little brother
rocks forward

i saw it
in an advert
for

Virgin

thoughts
collide
with a shattering
that rings out
on Breakfast
as his head
breaks the
fourth wall

sparks kick out
gilded
fireworks
in celebration
of the

Prodigal
Son's

Return

as the screen bursts
around his crown

a halo in faltering
clarity
as Jerry clouts
Tom with a
shovel

no sound is heard
but the picture remains
replaced within
a moment

by nothing

for nothing

fractured panes
hit the
white rug
a patch work of arterial
red in
hunt of the
images

but they are
gone

and the blood
slumps
disappointed
as gravity
rakes it down
the shards

the glass catches
the scene
and reflects

all emotion
absolved in it's
apathy

blood is boiling
in the
surround sound

i hear it's last
static stutters

'viewer digression
is advised'

it
cries
coughs
chokes
dies

his head
smolders in
the set
like tar

A Virgins red

Sky's blue

combine into
purple sludge
crawls down
my brothers
neck
shoulder
blades have left

cheeks
forehead
skinned

skinned
by the screen
held in place

it pins tissue to the lilac
flesh like it's
holding up
an

unfinished
garment

a would be
masterpiece

could've been
a masterpiece

My little brother
he is what's on

He always
wanted to
be
in TV