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Sara L Russell Aug 2010
19:14pm,  23/08/2010

I

What names of high renown lie here within,
What wonders of a cinematic age?
What players of chameleonic skin,
What vast dimensions leap beyond the stage?

Withnail and I would walk this hallowed road,
Dreaming of turning visions into deeds;
Train-spotting trains of thought that overflowed,
Where levity had trampled karma's seeds.

Tread softly here and utter not a sound,
The scene is set, for all lost here below,
With all forsaken dreamers underground
And all who yearned to go on with the show.

For all the lost, forsaken and foregone,
Dead lips whisper of "Hunt" and "Cameron".


II

Walkways of fame, like dreaming colonnades,
Gold sunrise shoots that everyone admired;
Lost eras when producers all wore shades,
And divas turned up early and inspired.

Hot cappuccino served with bright ideas
In cool cafés and bistros of desire;
Their ghostly image flares - then disappears,
With all who held the torch of inner fire.

All those who now endorse perfumes and creams
And those in pantomimes on seaside piers,
Remember well who crucified their dreams
Replacing honeyed hopes with bitter tears.

Inscribed in blood, their torrid names live on
- Don't speak to us of Hunt and Cameron.


III

A beautiful laundrette, deserted now,
Reduced to an accountant's numeral;
Open the wine and slay the fatted cow,
To find the wedding's now a funeral.

And did we, in good faith, believe their lies,
Electing them to office, fuelled by hope?
Now strung along by feeble alibis,
And all because we gave them enough rope?

Hope is the dreamer's dope. We who despair
Are never fooled by optimism's glitz;
Sometimes we are too fatalist to care,
Sometimes we must accuse, where the cap fits.

The coalition's follies blunder on
Up the Junction, with Hunt and Cameron.


IV

Avert thine eyes, Tim Bevan, CBE,
A tempest comes, on terrible black wings,
A blight hath fallen on the industry
That used to bring such bright imaginings.

Our protestations have a Little Voice
That Whitehall deems too indistinct to hear,
Must we the free be faced without a choice,
Must everything we loved now disappear?

Tread softly here, for it's the final take,
No accidental noise disturbs the boom,
As art is crucified for money's sake
Respectful silence settles in the gloom.

Sometimes progress moves backwards and is gone,
Like bright ideas by Hunt and Cameron.


The End....?
http://www.gopetition.co.uk/petitions/save-the-uk-film-council.html
PAGE ONE SIDE ONE

      The diffident boy’s chameleonic anguish sought to be cordial movements, only projected shaking and quivering hands while strolling along with a girl into a saunter down, down the street on a bridge hanging over a lake in a park.
      "Hold my hand" the boy said in a swoon to the girl, continuing - - "I love the shake, I love that frigid quiver, lets walk, jostle too beat, beat down the wind and jostle the street!"
       “Let us move further toward the illuminated illusions of the sun adjacent with the moon’s reflection blurred, misguiding us from shade for our eyelids, hiding,” the girl deviled, “but I know where, here,” she put out her palm, “that ****** glow is the heart of mine; take it, it is only our own warmth you will find. Let us be it. Only Be. Shade the other rays, for the other way to leave."
       She goes to hand the boy her heart, the boy abducting his hand to his side, distracted with the sun falling from the sky.
       “Oh, I must be here, here at this solemn lake, when it stills,” lightening and thunder from yonder occur, “Locomotion accompanying rain like pillars plummeting into walls capturing you and I becoming the storm’s echo. You may know where it is hiding, however, you will never go to where it is hidden.” each word pulsating from the boy’s mouth, his vision lost in the horizon of the sun burning out like a cigarette’s amber, “If I could only flick dawn into an astray and always be this high, then I would devour that glow in the palm of yours.”
       Tips of leaves sink to point to the ground, the sky begins to cry, and the boy and girl mourn.

PAGE ONE SIDE TWO

            “What the **** are we doing here, we, well I, must leave!” deep breathes in between each word as he spoke, “the air is dry, I can tear off the skin of an idol, spit up a song verbatim, ***** visceral vanity all over your tired hand.” The boy softly said, “To say that I care my dear.” Before the boy could finish all noise in the park inverted, causing sparkling wormholes splashed across the fields and meadows, slices of the moon shimmer on the rounded puddles. “I feel rested, well,” the boy paused, “the surroundings are spoken easy, calmed,” resonating, “calm, only small, smaller than the other."
          "Once… no only once I was told I was cold!  Consummate partner in your parallax! Whirlpool mirage, muddy pupils in the pits of hell, where at least? Is it scene that they are truthful devils?" The girl asked, “You must know, **** it!”

PAGE TWO SIDE ONE

The boy cried, he bellowed out killing, the sound killed,
whistles of felicity disguised in
a distant tree planted far, far over
on sides of mountains, where birds play a poet, creating, projecting the outcome of  this universe evolving, stepping-up the eardrums to shake… vibrate… create...
       "Noo…" the girl held herself under a tree with leaves stealing her. Roots absorbing her warmth, using it to darken the amassing shade, she’s dead, she’s a ghost now.
Killed while the sound killed, she's alone, holding herself, chancing upon her own to keep her memory alive.
       “Heed her advice, heed her owns. Draw pictures of her, with her face clear, photograph her face filled with tears.” The boy facetiously said.

PAGE TWO SIDE TWO

       "Oh, oh, I was a ****** fool, ******. It's graying out, the skies are dispersing, splitting into bluffs, let's go inside, forget about all of this.” The boy diverted.
    “Boy drops dead! Boy is dead!" the girl sedately said, "BOY IS DEAD BOY DROPS DEAD." She said, "lie down, grab hold of your chain, I will hold you no more, I hold only till I warm."
      "Chained? The links I combined on my own, with only you dragging me along. I'll speak easy, hang from this chain where I belong, and carve my epitaph into withering bark. I’ll starve until you deciduously leave this bright park." The boy’s eyes shutting as he fawns his final plight.
Boy dies changing his shoes.
Girl dies draped across roots.
Give them mercy on the river
Let their days be short of dread
Suffer the little children
Put a bullet through their heads

The blood runs down to water
The river flows on south
Taking their Holy Spirit
The breath from out of their mouth

The years turned into decades
The grass grows green and lush
Very few of the living
can recall
or remember much

So I sit upon the edge of nothing
where the beast made men once stood
I feel the chill run through me
Cover my head with hood
Kuvar May 2018
We are in a century
Where a new phone line
Will mean a new life
Distance of love
Is only taught
To be covered by a dial
so we see no pain
When we quit relationships
For a donkey’s walk
As the ancient had it
Is nothing but a phone dial
How chameleonic is it
©️Kuvar
I have seen people give up on themselves by the easiest recommendation of technology on social platforms just a block or an unfriend., as far as having a new phone line... life as we have it today is chameleoniC
Satsih Verma Nov 2017
Like a birthmark
you will remain
on my forehead.

Round cups and
blue drinks, the dark
side was capitulating.

You become my
partner, I will unleash
many moons.

I intended to
talk in walk about the
woes of life.
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2016
it has been over a year, to what has become:
    i have made too many points to be caged into one
     fraudulence, or one whimsical suggestion
that might entomb me... too many times has
the wind been undecided concerning what direction
my thought would travel to,
if my i am remained enthralled
within a stasis plateau... i cannot say how many
works could be written from a
string of i, 1, think, 2, therefore, 3,
i, 4, am, 5: five words... perhaps because the fact
is so recurrent, and so diverse
you can almost always encounter it
over and over again,
   in a kaleidoscope -
                  you can say:
how much of my thought precipitates
      toward my being so
to thus be instructed?
   and what if one says the opposite:
like... i think parallels i am...
  thought parallels beings...
and for that: we have the case
of ontology...
                    oh this is old territory,
and only a few could find a hammock
in these arguments...
          because there is no pop glory in
them to be found: for all things that
such postscriptum remarks are these days:
they are not dealt with in this world...
for let us say: man finds it truly
       uncomfortable to be cradling a soul...
materialism bites back with a vengefulness
  to completely destroy such entities:
and call upon history to speed-up
   their reasoning of the profundity of
the argument first given: as history speeded-up
   is but mythology...
  to quickly forget.
                 i rarely like to recreate my
steps back into this fact of the pentagram...
          it sounds too over-ridden with
past examples that have been left alone
or alooft...      they are no longer in line
with the vogue zeitgeist...
or the zeitgeist of the current vogue...
      but it has been over a year
since i made this entry: and yes, i remember it...
did you know that walking in temperatures
   in the range of -1 to -3ºC  is actually more
pleasant than walking in temperatures
in the range of +1 to +3ºC?
          i guess it could be counter-intuitive...
but there's that outer-suburban road
in the night... and that empty street,
   and there's me walking right down the middle
of it, rather than on the pavement...
   and it's so much more pleasant
in temperatures below 0ºC than just slightly
above... more pleasant: because it's
actually warmer... and the reason being?
there's absolutely no moisture in the air...
suddenly the water once bound to water vapour
becomes crystals on the pavement...
   and yes, this be but the second night
when Jack Frost came back...
likened to yesteryear... that strange sight,
of paparazzi crystal flashing on the pavement...
i might have asked for a red carpet too...
but there is was, the paparazzi frost
    tingling on the pavement...
       a red carpet scenario with an audience of 1...
below 0ºC... the warmer air of frost,
where water no longer exacts authority in the air...
   as if laden with a tombstone that
my shadow is... but so much clearer to be content
with such a burden: than an image in a lake,
or a mirror, so much less burden with a shadow
than a reflection...
                    wherever i look i gaze at an atom
bomb explosion, yet without strobe-shadow-etchings
on Hiroshima brick walls... i gesticulate
  my shadow like a puppeteer... and it pleases me
to see the puppet walk and trot, and swiggle
down a bottle of beer, and ooze out cigarette
smoke between street-lamps...
               and... fay! no strings attached!
o whiskey: my amber fay... o amber fay!
      through your tides of moon and mood,
that none of us have seen fathomable in temperaments
above what the prescription suggests:
         not you puritan Amber at room temperature:
for you are not cognac...
   or classic 1950s Hollywood dabbling with soda water...
             on the tip of my tongue: a bonsai iceberg
tickles my tongue, and the glass rattles with many
of them: like castanets!
                        there you are:
   in the deafness of the night my chauffeur and
    snogging suitor: for each bite of frost indoors
i twirl to romance: that no barbiturates could ever
provide... then let me teach the one who ended
his literary career asking to be a disciple of Dionysus,
let eternity be for me: a chance to teach him
how to appreciate you...
                  of course the Green Fairy will be there
as if the Lilith of Eden: lizardly green
or perhaps chameleonic rainbow tinged
so frivolous as to be envious and yet hide it;
for if he truly wanted to be a disciple
     to the fervours of a company with you -
i can spare him a lesson or due, for him to complete
his transvaluation of all values, and perhaps
    the untimely permutations.
                yet only with prior obstacles already
cited, as if lines wriggling toward nowhere of a
student in an hour's worth of detention...
      a mantra must be stated, and then avoided:
the serpent of narrative must sidewind
    away from the clear indication of what can
possibly come prior, and post.
                      still... a year ago i looked at the same
sight as i did today: the flickering of frost
on the pavement under a street-lamp...
     like a red-carpet event at a movie premier,
frost like photographic paparazzi flashing -
but this? o Amber Fay... such a subtler version,
that metaphor of epileptic nervousness
         that comes without warning and sooths
having strained one's eyes on the heavens
too often... to think: such an array of diamonds
on a brutish scrape of pavement:
        o such blissful humbling by the coming of
winter... with a Quasimodo to add to the scene:
    to look down upon this world and feel
a hunch about what route to take...
                is but a frightful realisation that
by looking up... once sees so few a chance to appropriate
      passive magic of this world
              and you and the world entwined for a purpose
to simple see what needs to be seen:
     and expect no fathomable truce between
such sights on a frosty night on the pavement:
   and  the celestial       zodiac patterns
     that speak neither of man or a god: but simply of aeons
  of perfected harmoniousness, to nothing more:
than a ratio.
James Gomez Jun 2015
i'm not myself
i'm somebody else
trapped
or living out a life that isn't or wasn't mine
i don't know

i readily take on forms
and my lips frame words
that are not my shape or thoughts

i'm a product of environment
of culture, of class
i'm chameleonic

don't judge me
i am you
Ryan O'Leary Jul 2018
If I was a poet and
not a painter, the
first stroke of my
plume would need
to be a commitment.

Chameleonic art has
the ability to be diluted,
abstracted, even inverted
and in my opinion, most
of it is a load of old Pollocks.
zane b Jan 2020
i am every song you’ve ever liked
with ****** features warping into a screen with your favourite memories on it.
i play continuous layers of sound,
overlapping my words into a familiar chorus of your own likes.
i am only what is seen and heard,
hidden unless noticed.
my characteristics are chameleonic.

not an ounce of me is mine, but they call this body mine.
a psychiatrist once said to me,
“you steal their traits so you feel more easy to accept.”
it’s just because i’m just too easy to reject.
so i will reflect what is shone on me,
i will paint myself to be your preferred artwork
and step only to your rhythm.
isn’t that the way you want it?
The Fire Burns Apr 2018
Billowing smoke,
creeps across the ceiling,
like frosting whipped and spread.

Gray-blue particles drift,
into volcanic snow drifts,
skin, stained in pattern.

Pixelated camouflage imprinted,
subcutaneous chromatophores injected,
chameleonic components supplied.

Skin *****, webbing,
triggered at a notion,
finger and toes transmogrified.

Nictitating membranes grown,
intrinsic goggles unfurl,
rods and cons added, eyesight enhanced.

Human, yet not exactly,
enhanced for performance,
evolution forced.
Inspired ish by The Titan on Netflix

— The End —