The Audience (Or Why I am Afraid of Cinema)
Not enough at the right time or enough at the wrong,
Tapped into glass pipelines filled with eager evocative thoughts.
There’s a silent row of hatred simmering silently here beside me.
I don’t know them, or they, I.
And the timing’s all off, the cords have never been straight or untangled.
The darkness is a gulf into which their mouthless words cascade.
I flash my light over to see a web of lossless images fly away behind them.
The audience, oh, the audience, how you scare me.
When the wings, in the attic,
On the inside of the building, beat raw against the ceiling,
And the eggs stashed away in nests of the rafters wobble and cry.
A sharp machine gun tatters fast,
Binding rays of revelation across them all.
A blood red emission, and the pulses quicken.
Warning me, a different emotion stirs in my little instinctive chill,
At the audience, oh the audience, sitting still.
And the guideline on the front page of my heart says “appreciate”,
I follow it as much as I can,
Because life is short, sharp and sweet as carved fruit.
But the people here are on a different brand of nothing.
I can’t feel their pulses, but know their immediate goals,
To please the screen, to please the screen.
Maybe one man will cross his arms,
If he lets himself.
A side glance at the tranced-out emancipated captive audience fixes him,
Back to his seat, back to staring at the screen.
This is why I hate cinema, now,
Freedom lasts forever within me and my dreams.
But stuck to the sticky floor of the pop corn halls,
Thoughts of the puppet-string militia,
Cross my mind and stand proud and tall,
Even if,
They didn’t like the film,
At all.
15/10/22
EDITED TO REPLACE FORMAT AND FIX TYPOS ON 26th OCTOBER ’22
The Humble Rock Dove 