People in their twenties, with cameras
Set to night mode, it’s like they never
Aged from when they were a teenage dreamer
Hoping to be a film maker, a director.
But instead, they’re stuck on cable
On a channel no one watches, running
Round buildings, old and derelict,
Making stories up and hoping that
Those whistles and those eerie creaks are ghosts
When all of us well know that it’s the wind
Rattling through the broken window panes.
When it’s late, and I’m too tired to take in anything that’s particularly scholarly, I sometimes like to just sit and watch those programmes where people run around abandoned buildings, claiming that they are haunted.
There is something so mindnumbingly comforting as watching something that is simultaneously interesting, frightening, funny and ridiculous. It’s either those programmes or Botched and I didn’t particularly want to write a poem about boobs.