Writing: Stage Boar

by Beauchamp Art

Between every day,
When eyes collapse,
There, in silhouette,
Averted gaze
Turning away,
Hand bag secure
Under right arm,
Held steady by left,
Cloak a-flap with cool turn.
Every crowd,
Looking just above head height
Perhaps, but never…
Ever first and last thought,
All guilty pangs
For unforgivable acts,
Forgotten lines.

The performer cracks a drunkard’s laugh,
Plays the fool.
A role familiar but not knowing the part,
Makes the others sharing the stage uneasy.
The crowd twist in seats
Turn downwards.

A closing soliloquy was to set the tone,
All depart prematurely
Awkward lack of applause.
Should be sobering,
But rather encouraging the converse
Try to catch that figure when departing,
But miss them by the slightest hesitation.
Now there is no chance,
No opportunity to pursue,
Must abandon these repeated visions.

Be less a prophet,
More a monk
Engulfed in solitude and mediation
To keep head down.
Erase that face from all memory;
All the panic abated,
All form dissolved
In this resolute solution,
Which shall be ignored
And other spirits shall guide
Down the same streets,
Flowing as so much gutter water, unclear.
Mix with so much sediment,
Muddying foot prints,
So no one knows who walked here.
No memory secured,
All a grey fog filled with uncertain forms.

Like half awake stupor,
thoughts drift back,
Rolling in filth
Trying to get clean,
But the muck just spreads,
And this pig squeals
In anticipation of the slaughterhouse.
Never to meet,
Only to starve in wait
Ever with eyes rolling back,
Lolling tongue in sleep talk
Saying all this nonsense.
In an illusion of distraction,
All too familiar,
All too far…

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