Thursday, 17 January 2013

Critique Of A Winter Tree

A wooden thespian dramatically
enters the bleak stage,
playing the closing scene,

Baring all, it splinters
the panoramic with an
air-shattering illusion.
A skeletal hand reaching
towards a godless sky, trembling...
delivering sparse monologue.

Page upon page of script.
(this show has many layers)

“Brainstem scribble
in a doodle-delicate mist.
Naked, waiting, green.
I see (wo)man as me. Not
a carbon copy but close.”

Directed by shivering sunlight.
Produced by freezing rainfall.
The theatre of the absurd.
This ‘one-off’ performance,
melts haunting afterimages
upon my icy retinas.
Leaves a fading echo.


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