Static

It's the noise for our times.

The air crackles with it

Though it remains rarely seen,

Hiding between hair follicles

And the folds of acrylic clothing

And the unnatural floor tiles of the library.

Plastic fantastic static.

Zap! Crack!

Lightning formed from oil

At our fingertips.

*

Still.

Static.

Still.

Static has many meanings.

But static is not static.

It is a movement misnomer,

As it fires when it's touched

And its behaviour is shocking:

Hair-raising.

*
Sometimes I want to be static.

I want to be a spark,

Setting the air alight,

A forking miracle.

Sometimes I want to be static.

Sitting

With nowhere to go and nothing to do.

Not sleeping, just static.

Not zapping, not napping,

Just me

Immersed in my own statis,

The waves of my brain.

*

It has ideas too, static.

White Noise!

Why "white"?

The supreme sound,

The best noise,

The greatest noise?

It's all about the white!

Let's not Capitalise

Despite extortions to the contrary;

Because

I'd rather listen to white noise than White Noise

And enjoy the static, the soothe of constancy,

Provided in the hum of waves,

The hissing lullaby of the formless,

Steady, consistent.

It makes more sense

Than bluster, insults and lies.

My ears welcome the mono-tone, not the monotonous drone;

And its whiteness is purity, the innocence of fuzz,

Like the fluff of a bumble bee -

Just buzzing.