The cinema died in celluloid swells that sparked my skirt,
Dyed in dyes that flaked off between my fingers where it made soft roses (hidden)
in the white of my hands. That dye like a butterfly.
From sepia canyons the light wove in throes and fits to hit hard the soft surface of a dirty mountain stream.
Like some book or show but filled with mud, silt, sand,
I pulled my skirt up and ran the way that dogs do:
To Fro To Fro
Pell mell they say.
On the other side I saw the dark coming on like Dor-
othy, the Emerald city.
THERE IS: NO PLACE
But as the clouds gathered green, I watched the sunset
Of the screen in waves of
The cinema died that night with a one-two punch, a whispered kiss.
Pomp, Romp & Ceremony as I made it down the quiet hall alone, a weary traveller in some solemn steamy dream with no C for Cinema only V for...
The credits rolled a final time in step as, beautifully,
Tragically, with a car chase, a final sigh, a fandango, a top hat scream, dropofblood like a black pearl
(Perfect, never drying)
Cinema lay dying.
A silence. A cut.
It died then, in the moment I found you ,
down the town below
in those theatricals, hands singing like tough birds
Belly like fish, and the eyes of a shorn whore
Vellum Vaudeville reborn in fetish garb:
(Mary, Joe and Sade. A rebirth of entertainments gored, gone and dog-eared).
You whiteness, fleshed, no longer flat and light as light as light on screen had been.
You, the new god in stereo with a seraglio of cigarettes, rubbers and loves.
When push comes to shove you will make it XY XY XY: high, dry
the unlikely hero of flesh and blood.
No poison will harm you,
And your fingers burst through the gloves of some high fiction, as they reach through me.
This is not film
This is just Noir
This is not cinema
This is just verite
There may be dancing in the final scene but
That tango will be for you and me alone
For no eyes in space will keep time
When your eye look into mine.
And you light a cigarette in your own style