why are so many film directors obese? must be the diet
of worms and lost love but you are on this windy clifftop
your wild hair always shrieking your words ripped away
like men on fire at ground level by some magic of cinematic
psychism the camera view ripped away to the far shores
of a solar system not a raptor's eye that homes on garbage
and dead creatures but for a cosmic instant the machine
the robot turns think of rust and cranking and creaking
pieces of ceramic debris fragments of apparatus breaking
away as it turns with a last effort its huge head out there
the pain of it is unimaginable the loss and effort of leaving
it sends back one final transmission of a dying lover rising
out of the underworld caught for an instant in sunlight
that turn that strophe the last act before the endless drift
there is nothing just nothing more to be done
.
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