Winter sun

Art
School
Dance
Baby
All in that order
Our boys meant to be suicide toys?
Aren’t our girls dispensers of joy?
Got Lou Reed serenading the ailing winter sun
WAR OF THE WORLDS – (the technicolor one)
struggles to repeat its final moments
an epidemic end to the invasion
can’t they all just die? -- you ponder
considering the rate of infected
poisoning this calamity of construct
hasn’t enough banal madness seeped into our lives?
The last picture show
haunting in its ability to deviate
the apprehension to genuinely demonstrate finality
it’s never about the last movie house
striving to survive in a southern wasteland nor the wholesome rational values and instructions to corrects the fires of youth
but you’d like that
instead you got dead Orson Welles
narrating dead H.G. Wells in dead post-modern times further regressing without the pomp and ceremony of a prestigious yet panic stricken broadcast
panic at year zero
everyday starts at zero
ground zero until we can’t
ever again
the spin doctors say otherwise
prescribing and operating
like a Victorian operating theatre done 1970’s grindhouse style
you don’t see the blood and gore
but can sure feel yourself spilling inside
waiting for that culture of fear
to give
just
the right amount of push
to jump out
that barely
open
window