A Little Control
I like to have control of the television remote
and I worry it might be because I am a man.
I know the change in dynamics
can make my ears itch in the white noise
of adverts. Coupled with a conversation
in the background, it can put me on edge—
I want to have the power to hide this
by casually lowering the volume to an even number.
My friend once said his erect penis was the same
size as a Sky+ remote, which I accepted as fact.
I wonder if there is a connection here—
they say a gun is a phallic symbol
and with the television remote I can kill
off any character with mute or standby,
then play god by bringing them back
with the touch of a button.
But I know that when I am trying to think
the sound from the television acts like a lobotomy.
I am sure it is just a way to take control
of my own body, and I always ask her
what she wants to watch, and I don’t ‘do’ sports
and I don’t like to have the indecision of choice
but I like to be the one to push the buttons and
control the volume, but I worry there is more to it than that.
Opening the Door
There is a moment’s pause before her greeting,
before she recognises me
or pretends that she does.
She avoids proper names.
Instead she waits until she reads the tag
on the poorly wrapped Christmas present
and then she uses it too often
to make sure it sinks in
or to try and reassure me
she remembers who I am.
Joe Pickard works as a journalist in London. He studied English with Creative Writing at the University of Chester. He has had writing published in Nine Muses Poetry, Crossways, Confluence, Prole, and elsewhere. He is the founding editor of Pulp Poets Press, which is always looking for submissions. Twitter: @PoetsPulp