birds alight upon
sutures of a licked-thin night—
tree branch at sunrise.

Wonder
I wonder
If I have
Much time left
Wonder
I wonder
What happens
When you die
Wonder
I wonder
If this is
My last reprise
Wonder

So go ahead and tell me, child.
Would it all have been worthwhile
To tread upon Eliot's allusiory notion
Having bitten off the matter with a smile
Negating warnings, blinded by devotion?
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
During our days to ****** and create
Amnesic to past transgressions of a dying fall
Divulging the insidious question upon our plate?
Daring to disturb the song of the universe
Repeating the same indecisions and revisions
In which we must ultimately reverse?

Splash
What’s that?
Splash
How’s that,
Splash
Possible?
Splash
Plausible?
Splash
Splash
Downpour.
­It rains here,
Yet the sky is clear,
And the ground is dry.
No spots in the sky.
Yet it rains...
It rains.
It rains.
Red
Black
Thick
Red
No...
It’s blood
And I feel
Drained
It’s my blood
Falling from the sky
Coming from a monster
Previously slain
Yet like this ground,
I feel so dry.
Run
I run
I run faster
And faster
He’s behind me
He’s gaining
He’s in front of me
And he says
Smile.
Flash
The ground is gone
I fall down, down, down
And upon my head
Appears a crown
With the inscription
“Little Reprobate”
He flies above me
He says Hi.
Tells me to smile
And I fall
There are shackles on my feet,
Pulling me into the sea.
Shards of silver,
With broken glass,
Litter the sea floor.
Stop.
He swims like a shark
Stop!
He reminds me,
In the cold I’m coming for you.
STOP
I should have known
There’s no peace in the pond
STOP!
The broken glass glues as one
It forms a door,
To another shore,
With a doorbell
DING ****!
DING ****!
DING ****!
I ring frantically
He opens the door and says
Die.
I SAID STOP!
You little fool.
Flash
I’m back,
I’m home
In this prison of innocence known.
Here he has no Red Throne.
For I’ve seen with my own eyes,
Dark places are my reprise.

A blackened sky is on the rise,
What will it mean for you and I?
The sea will part,
And then reprise,
Please don't return to the sky tonight.

Sleep is elusive
Night is young
All the lullabies
Have been sung

Memories hurt
Like being stung
No reprise to life
That’s been flung

My sexlife is only existing by the thought thereof; it is a film cancelled in pre-production. It is an abandoned studio wherein the lone director stands centrally - scoping the remains of an epic never made, eavesdropping the voices of people that could have been involved and the props and the grandiose sets left in shielding shades.

Maybe someday the script can be rewritten, the thirteen hundred volt lamps will light up the stage where an actress vents her soul and it burns onto celluloid solely destructible by time. The company has decided to let the studio be, maintain it, so that the film can be revived and the passion rekindled, yet for now the studio will be left unattended.
I guess I will visit occasionally.