stage

A Peyote Vision

Ten thousand hungry eyes 
sting my flesh
in the white hot light.

Feeding the ambiance:
a cool blue glow,
affixed to the trusses above.

The cigarette smoke curls 
and winds playfully thru
the languidly humid air;

she dances for me 
like a care-free spirit, 
Earthbound.
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Playwright

Speech can be a masterpiece of artistic creation,

Elegant calligraphy, decorated with the odd heart-flutter flourish,

Fingers working, dancing, pounding on ivory keys, 

The smoke from a handsome mouth drifting through mahogany halls

As though from a fired gun. Dust settling after an earthquake. 

 

I cast myself in my plays, 

Too immersed to retract from the action, 

Too selfish to watch another fertilise the seeds, 

Too inflated to see my words applauded to another, 

"That's the theatre!" "That's life!"

 

People care little for Mona herself, 

Only for her master, his talent unbound. 

We praise not sunflowers, but their gardener insane. 

Shakespeare was lucky, the devil of devices, 

But the new world has eyes, not ears. Not brains!

 

I cannot see the target but for dazzling light, 

Heat and heart working furiously to fuel those pretty-penned words, 

I'm dashing or thrashing, whichever is box-office smashing, 

The multi-skilled wonder man of paper-in-hand, 

I love the stage and I love my plays, 

In most, I play the devil.