It’s film fascism! A director-dictatorship!
Leaving behind copy-righted carcasses.
Ignore the camera, baby.
The camera is only a window.
Unless it’s cinéma vérité, which sounds great,
But there is no truth on a screen after being
Mercilessly cut and edited.
Film is the pageant child of truth.
It’s made up with such extravagance but
It’s a poor copy of what it really is.
To the woman in the yellow dress
Twirling the white scarf like it’s your lover
I would like to know the secrets
You hide behind those relaxed eyes
You move with fluidity I have never seen before
The crowd are watching the band
But I’m watching you
You don’t even stop between the songs
You must be dancing to the music in your head
I can only wonder what that might be like
Or perhaps you are an empty vessel
A slave to your body
Stuck on an endless carousel ride
I will never know
And you will forever be imprinted
As the woman in the yellow dress
Who danced like like she was telling a story
Over the log and into the rabbit hole
You were suspended in a kaleidoscope
Of delirium and sensual colour
Your fingers wobbled like fractal worms
Neon waves of sound undulated through your ear canals
You were falling but getting closer to the night sky
The stars were tiny fish rippling at the surface
You plunged into the water and the moon dissipated into sand
That glittered like a million flecks of gold
You floated at the bottom for a while
Large rocks whizzed by not noticing your presence
You thought you were a piece of kelp blissfully swaying
Until you felt a painful thrust through your chest
Like the barb of a fishing hook
It dredged you back too quickly
The world mixed together unnaturally
Your eyes were being stretched to the point
Where everything became a long piece of string
Being wound over and over
It got so tight that it snapped
You were back
Click-clacking teetotallers parade the street with coffee breath as blazed
Cross-leggers giggle at the lopsided puddles dribbling on the backs of ants in cracks.
Cracks violate the dry heels of Prada worshipping women, who fan their faces
Dotted with sweat beads caused by the burning demon in the sky.
Sky scrapers grow invasively like weeds dominating a garden, that tower
Over the rows of cars continuously compacting the tar coated earth.
You can see them protruding from miles away, you can see them shine from space,
Harbouring millions of compartmentalised microcosms of life.
Man and machine seem so comfortable within their concrete fortress but
They can not contend with the almighty power that inevitably sneaks through the flaws.
It’s not fun being invisible.
I can feel a scream forming at the back of my throat, but I can’t make any sound.
I feel like nothing because I am basically nothing. Empty space.
It would be easy being nothing if I knew I wasn’t meant to be something.
It’s the worst suffering you can feel, watching others live.
The only thing I can do is scare people with my intensity.
I’m a prisoner shaking my bars.
I have no choice.
If only something could free me.
They were perfectly nested, side by side,
On that park bench each day.
Vultures picking apart people,
Hunched in matching coats of grey.
“There’s that fat one”, they would squawk.
“The tall one with the hair lip.”
“The husband, hardly at home,
On an extended ‘business trip’.”
“I heard she has her teeth whitened.”
“I heard he wears a toupee.”
“I heard they’ve gone bankrupt,
Having gambled it all away.”
“Don’t you think it’s ghastly?”
They sneered and they awed,
“That everyone in town, but us,
Is inexplicably flawed?”