#4

No, I Don’t Read Lips

Blackening green island,

Grinning gasping oven squeaking,

Orange flaming walls.

It speaks to me.

Are you listening?

The house lighting up

A starry night with orange glow.

Twas a pleasure to burn.

It’s alright.

There was a black round screen.

And a mic.

With people scrambling

Around it.

Let’s go over there.

The gasping hole in his head.

Yapping, awkward and useless.

My pupil rolls, again and again.

Will, walk for me, please.

Brown bear,

Brown bear,

What do you see?

                I see…

                                Flashing of strobe lights.                              

                                                Black boxes with letters.

                                                                Hands.

Will?

Where am I?

                Among friendly people.

                                In a filthy prison, mute and deaf to the world.

                                                A respected patron of the Turkish noble court.

                                                                Nowhere, not even on the stage.

What are you doing?

Could be worse.

                Merde. C’est la vie.