The detective shot
tequila like it was water.
He was alone, his office
black and white and gray
all over. Smoke stings
his Humphrey Bogart eyes.
Some soliloquy in his mind,
Pointless in its noirity.
Something about his ex
wife, or how this city
is in the shitter. It doesn\'t
matter. Telephone rings.
On the other side a lady;
scantily draped over
an embroidered couch.
Red dress, red lips, gray.
She\'s white, or light gray;
all the femme fatales are.
And she lies about some dead
husband. Says the detective,
I\'ll be there as soon as possible,
thinking with his lower head.
Though he\'s been drinking
he drives a dark black
green car to the scene
of the crisis. The city
is dark, illuminated
by flicking white street
lights and a projector.
It\'s always night,
the day\'s too bright
for the cameras.
She stands below
A street lamp pure
white light in her
blackish grayish brown
hair. The detective reaches
her, he kisses her, no question
of possible assault. Only kissing
forceful on the lips on the street.
No cars really. The sound stage
is empty, the producers could
not be bothered
with financing more cars.
They still kiss
music swelling
with his bulge. But
instead of him entering
her, a bullet enters him.
She smiles and says something
but the audio distorts. Her
mask will be revealed but,
the film is spliced weird.
He falls back and from his wound
the film begins to melt. The growing
break in fake reality overwhelms
the detective sprawled out.
His features shift, his eyes
drift. Time extends
and slows, his shoulders
separate from sternum.
She smiles, it grows
a mile wide. The audience
is restless. The detective stops
he looks out on those observing.
Who are you? Who the fuck do you think you are?
His burnt face has a hole in it. He continues.
I die for my sake not for yours and not for the writer.
I spit in your eye you sadistic voyeurs, my life
is no film. I am no character, I am God.
His face is large and mouth split in two,
the audience shifts nervously in their seats.
Apostate! I call you all apostates! Heretical
is your fascination with death. I am your God.
I did not create plants so you could fabricate
cellulose. I did not give you language
so you could create maccabe theatre.
The femme fatale screams. The audience
shudders. Somewhere in a dark room
a man wrestles with a projector
Revelations, my impudent children.
The tequila on the detective\'s
breath burns the first three rows
the screen is set ablaze. Popcorn
embers fall on foreheads.
The dark red aisles run black
and white. The lights raise. A gray
ginger man attempts to get a clap going.
No one reciprocates. Families
leave into the midday sun;
men with their mistresses,
women with their detectives.
and one sweaty critic, who gives it
a 2 outta 5 stars, \"it\'s no Citizen Kane\"
Tomorrow is the rapture.
No one is taken.