The night was rainy, hot and humid. It was the kind of night that populates steamy, black and white, noir movies where someone is murdered. The stars seemed reduced to sloshing behind moldy gray clouds, as damp and listless as seaweed in the surf.

“Let’s go see a movie,” Sophy suggested, as she brought up the Fandango website on the 70” smart TV. This quickly drew a brouhaha of excited interest.

“Ooo!, Bullet Train,” Anna said. “Elvis!” Lisa gushed.
“Where the Crawdads sing!” Sunny gasped.
“Super pets!” Leong declared, pointing - producing groans all around - THAT was a no-go.
“Maverick!” I said. “I could do that,” Sunny agreed, “he’s crazy but I’m a Cruise fan.” she added.

In the end we decided to do a movie marathon with “Maverick” that night and “Elvis”, “Bullet Train” and “Where the Crawdads sing,” on Sunday.

As we ordered our treats at the theater concession stand, a tall, skinny, spotted, teenage boy attempted to flirt with Lisa. He smiled at her as confidently as a lizard, but sagged, like a shirt whose coat hanger was removed, when she pointedly ignored him.

He who doesn't know me is myself.

How characters from thousands of movies lived within me, made me think I am them.

And I am all of them now.

And we dont fit on the door now.

But we can still filter the world through the curtains.

( I have posted this poem of mine on several different international poetry sites everytime there is a school shooting in the U.S as I care about all children deeply and feel for innocent lives lost.
This time in Uvalde, Texas, USA)

https://youtu.be/40KtlqpCN0I

TELLY TROUBLE AND DANGERS
What kids are watching on telly
are crimes and crimes in all variety!
Crimes of hate
crimes of passion
acting it out at shocking rate
thinking in some wild fashion
then ending up cell mates
TV can **** their compassion
Their coffins enter cemetery gates

When kids watch their movie heroes
shoot down people with the gun
they are incited to do the same
to achieve some thrill and fun.

When they see their very film star
slash someone's throat in a fit of anger
they think well of crimes of rage
and plunge everybody else into danger.

The tendency to portray the violent scene
luridly and shockingly on the Big Screen
Ah, even for the small screen, tis the gory
that makes for the dark and thrilling story.

Now that technology's long opened
this wily pandora's box,
the dispersal of amplified social ills
just ain't no hoax

The rowdy hoodlums and reckless gangsters
are simply by-products of Tv influences
The world watches the thriving of the bully-boy pranksters
passively in helpless terror of their offences.

It's all portrayal of the ******, the obscene
by that devious Silver Screen
And the horror movie
though it may seem groovy
begets the horrendous
and drills evil thoughts subliminally
into the subconscious!

Viewing those gruesome swashbuckling films
gives rise to morbid sadistic whims
Flipping through the TV channels just ponder
if the telly's the perfect channel
of information is it a proper panel?

Dad always tells me, 'fear ye the roaches' flicking antennae?
While you oughtta fear the influence of 'em' flickering images by dish antennae'.

It's an unrestrained dark faking
of real life reality exaggerating
Whether it's Bollywood in the East
or it's Hollywood in the West
they don't merely impart tactics of defence
but rather those of aggressive offence

Just verbal tougher gun laws couldn't halt
even underage shooting sprees
Rather it's stringent scanning of Tv content
and banning citizens from acquiring guns
that might make it forever cease

Parental supervision too tis gravely essential
should've been of parental code quintessential
So the next time you catch your youth or teen
absorbed and engrossed while glued to the screen
Just sleuth a bit just to make sure
that for the ******* he's not too keen!

Only a mere single merit that I dug
as I drank cappucino in my mug
that atleast one couldn't live in a bubble
daily watching this bubblebug.

I close my two eyes
I can’t see anything
I need a hand
from my pineal gland
to give me some vision
projections hit the back of my eyelids
showing me images conjured by myself
I am the artist and the audience
finally a filmmaker
but I have no editor
every edition is a suicide cut
the assembly footage with no assembly
different stories with the same outcome
being stuck in a homicide rut
different possibilities creating a medley
of my own creations hunting me
with the faces of others plastered on
in this world my mind is God
isolating flaws and fears
always feeling the end is near
when there was no beginning
to moving pictures with no plot
just mapping out my mind rot
showing me my insecurities and anxieties
leaving me insecure and anxious
I’m starting to hate the author of these stories
but the more I hate him the more they get gory.

Some days I don’t want to leave the cinema
I sit dead centre,
hope the screen will fill my field of vision,
each speaker will cover my ears
in numbing sound
allowing thrills and broken hearts
of others’ made up tales
to supplant my own for two hours
and change

The dark holds me anonymous,
lets me depart and drift,
try on the moods in lost safety
so when credits roll
choked tears and shiny blisses
are returned, rewound, reset
for what comes next

somedays i'm more scared
than       the  others

more susceptible to the
diseases of the mind

that lay their bare hands
on my chest and
                     weave it down

hammer on the uncertainty
of the coming morning

meld the steel that dangles
from the ceiling

waiting to pounce at any
suffocating moment of
                          failure and dread

in the dead of the night
when the sun awakens

and ever so suddenly
the moon burst into flames

have all the stars fall in a
fiery ball of madness

circling the streets sniffing
at the despair of the
                            crying children

perching on the threads of
looming crisis of faith and
                            all things miserable

the melancholy of which is
lost on the swaying trees and
                           the singing birds

that is all over the news in
small fine print

while an angry man on the TV screams at people for not paying attention

over and over
again and again; until
it is time for the magic
of make belief:

only if magic was a real thing
so many things would have been
possible

the kind that lives in your
head and prospers in your mind

the kind Charlie Kaufman
knows about.

i want someone to notice the way i laugh at the wrong parts of movies
and know what weird thought i had about the scene
to hold my hand and kiss my dimple and write about how witty i am
we can joke about it every time we rewatch it

i want someone to read to me under a fading sky in the wintertime
as our breath curls around our throats and it's hard to keep their voice steady
but the words are pretty, and so are their fingers as they wrap around my hair
sylvia plath for the darker days,
robert frost when the sun starts peeking through

i want someone who will dye my hair in shades of pink and green
our noses curling at the scent of the overwhelming bleach
laughing hysterically as we get high on the fumes and try to be quiet when we hear my mom's footsteps outside the bathroom
i'll cut their bangs choppy to match

i want someone who will sing duets with me to a blown out car stereo
as we drive aimlessly through the nights of this ghost-town-to-be
i'll steal the aux cord more than once, and mess with the windows like a kid
but they'll tolerate it because they like the wind
almost as much as they like me

i want someone to dance with me in the rain like we're in a bad romance novel
and enjoy it anyway because it smells like promises (and i keep those)
we can waltz badly and laugh until it hurts to laugh, and then we'll just sway
i'll splash them with puddles and they'll splash back harder
and we can ditch our clothes and get hypothermia together

maybe one day i'll want them enough to have them

but for now i'll watch movies by myself and still laugh at all the wrong parts, knowing that i'm weirdly clever

i'll read poetry in my own voice under the grey sky cut open by leafless branches, because it's pretty

i'll dye my own hair and cut my own choppy bangs and i'll feel untouchable

i'll scream 'bohemian rhapsody' by myself driving down main street in the middle of the night

and i'll just wait for it to rain so i can catch in my mouth and pretend it was a kiss from the sky

It's not about the love or the hate.
It's about being able to resonate.
It's not about the fame, fortune, or gold.
It's about trying to tell a story in a world
where it seems every story's already been told. And don't be afraid to tell us
if you don't understand. We get it.
No one is going to relate to every painting, movie, or band.
At the end of the day, all we want to do
is help you escape.
And if we inspire or entertain you
along the way, then all the pain is worth it.
No matter what the naysayers say.

It ain't as easy as the A B C
It ain't the same as the movies
Have you ever wondered how it'll feel
Walking hand in hand down by the sea
It's been too long since I've had these dreams
When will I tell you how I feel