Van Gogh cut his ear off; I just wrote this…
Life in Act III and fast approaching Curtain
A player – vaguely played – who stutters still the lines.
Until mutters fill the feral Upper Circle
venting pity dressed as shitty platitudes
The play’s the thing, of course; the drama.
A panorama laid before the crowd.
And also bare, the naked soul of someone
who cannot see the writing on his wall.
‘Bums on seats’ is not just theatre parlance.
It’s down and outs, whose worn souls are holed.
Who bay for blood from down at heel performers.
And rend a player’s garments with sharp tongues.
This act become a study in contrition
is bathed in light beyond the darkened stalls
The penitent is drowned within a teardrop
or dies in shame at silent curtain calls