(Most men lead their lives in quiet desperation.
Henry David Thoreau)
Who needs the clanking
chains, the squeaking stairs
and inexorable footsteps?
There’s a cancer ward
in every hospital where
the excisions are torture.
Who needs the bony hand
reaching from the curtain;
the gaunt and bloodless face?
There’s a nursing home around
the corner where those who
remember sit waiting for death.
No need to dress in black,
dark makeup, black lipstick,
affectations. There’s a girl
in her bedroom cutting herself,
contemplating her own end
before she turns seventeen.
Hollywood works too hard,
rubber masks, 3-D effects,
blood squirting everywhere.
Turn on the lights and film y
our neighbors. Face
the camera, film yourself.
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