A Curtain Calling
The director’s tired, feeling pinched,
trawled her office one times too many times
and that’s some crab she’s got In there
because it’s fucking work tomorrow, dear;
it’s those claws I mean and, oh so petty
when you’re throwing down bass riffs
in disgust. Props among the heavy lifters;
all those around seem like only grifters
and hams to hack up a most rude chorus.
Will that do for you? Is that not naturalistic?
Because it seems to me we walk like that,
talk like that, all coverall cat call struts,
flat white in the left, mobile in the right,
rocking those high heels in shocking pink,
all tits and arse and scripts that stink
and a laugh so false you could use it for nails.
So wipe her tears from your eyes’ epic fail,
given my mood you’re in; your face I’m pulling,
like teeth and rings off cans of flat Miranda
can’t move Prospero or fool Casandra,
because she’s agonizing over her advice today
while I bury the love I feel in sulky boy,
not repent, withdraw what’s spent, enjoy
poor actors cupping beseeching hands,
holding out their echoing beggars’ bowls
in hollow hope one coin will fall
while we bow and take our curtain call.
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