Season 2

They’ve renewed your  

favourite show for a 

second season and you’re 

super excited, scouring  

the internet for theories 

on who the puppet master  

is, or if Jack will turn heel.  

Will the werewolves attack  

or will the time-travelling  

merchants buy them off  

with promises of brilliant 

futures in alien worlds?  

You’re a hypomanic mess,  

unable to hold it in, 

you post your review on FB,  

a stanza written in feverish,  

furious prose about how the show 

transcends its supernatural  

elements and portrays the  

class struggle enveloped by  

the hands of free-will 

and determinism. 

You’ll never know what  

happens next, you conclude  

and wait and hope for a comment 

from a fellow-fan, another believer  

on his knees, bringing his  

tribute of milk and honey,  

but someone else chimes in. 

They shouldn’t have renewed it,  

it would have served 

well as a miniseries,  

they say, and that plagues your mind.  

So, to distract  

yourself, you read the comics,  

play cricket and go for walks, 

you tune into some reality junk  

and bit by bit, their opinion 

and your solid recollection of 

season 1 fades, the vampires  

turning into blurry stone gargoyles,  

the abject poverty 

replaced by the middle class  

neighbourhood you live in,  

the aliens going back to their  

planets, and time, linear,  

inching forward and dragging  

you with it.  

Photo by Erik Mclean on Unsplash




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