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AN AFTERNOON OF CINEMA

May 16, 2018

There is no certainty,

No sure move,

No place is set,

Place to place I go,

Searching for my place,

With desperation, to an extent,

Darkness will soon descend.

 

While we wait, contemporary music,

Soft rock. An inoffensive music,

They talk low behind me,

A low, deep voice, and …. jazz!

What a shock. An unpleasant one,

I found my seat. I wait.

 

My window, at home, is open,

The rain will doom me, twice,

Now, whispered feminine voices,

Still at my back. On my right,

I dare not turn to look.

 

Keys in doors. All is secure,

Hyperactivity. I walked fast,

Shortness of breath, not,

Here I am, to forget myself,

A grand piano, covered, on stage.

 

I’d prefer dim lighting,

Now he’s all busy, sitting,

Clearing his throat,

Expecting to be troubled.

 

I’d leave a tip, another time,

Another day. A hard earned living,

Talk of films. Clearly experts.

 

Romantic music. I dream of romance,

It’s difficult to talk, for clearing of throat,

Too much conversation, between men,

He speaks too fast. How feminine,

His voice is indeed quite feminine.

 

Talking all the way through the previews,

The advertisements. Sitting, with a groan,

How rowdy. An afternoon of cinema,

Poor choice of previews ….

Somebody blocks my light,

Somebody sits before me,

I’m on a balcony: it’s fine.

 

High up. We dream of those below,

Coughing now. Constantly clearing his throat,

A virtuoso performance. I wouldn’t say so.

 

All are lost here,

She’s head of the state,

Those who see documentary films ….

No words needed.

 

The dead eyes of a newborn,

The babe, she sleeps,

Exhausted from a minute of life.

 

Self-immolation, as a symbol,

They fought and lost,

He sacrificed himself.

 

Before them, the enemy,

We stand united,

Sometimes broken,

Sometimes stranded.

 

The mechanic noises,

The sounds of strikes,

Of protests,

A loud voice,

She can’t speak low,

An idiot.

 

All must know her fate,

I saw it. I knew it,

And she’ll steal my earthly affairs,

She screams. An imbecile’s voice.

 

It’s not a quiet place,

We’re not in the heart,

Neither the heartland nor the city,

Here, we wait.

 

The story’s over,

I’m far from cinema blackness,

All is real here,

Girls in dresses on bikes,

The poor end of town.

 

Tourist buses pass before me,

They’re empty. The tourists have their way,

It’s loud. I’m feeling troubled,

The world surrounds me,

There’s sun on my back,

I see clearly my words,

My words not so clear.

 

Behind me, a bank,

Its headquarters, or back shed,

They arrive by scooter,

Automatic. Only fools kick pedal.

 

I see the word ‘urgent’,

Nothing’s ever so urgent,

We’ll be without power for some minutes,

For a time there was no water,

Shortly there will be no fuel.

 

We need gasoline to power us,

Gasoline to end our lives,

They stand before me,

Like I’m not here,

And I’m not,

I’m a spectre,

I haunt streets,

I don’t walk.

 

I see their light,

I head straight towards it,

Soon, I’m blind,

Still, I follow,

Now, I’m no more.

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