Kat SST10 Draft 2

7 Jan
Estimated running time: 3-4 minutes
Reading back on the feedback I think my poem would be a lot clearer if I could perform it with someone else to read the second person, so if anyone’s up for that
Lighting wise, the poem talks about projecting a video onto the stage, which I will get sorted and recorded myself, but if that looks too odd throughout the entire piece I may just have a cold large spot on centre stage, if possible?
Also it would be great if I could have any feedback on a) if it makes sense and b) how to edit the poem when it comes to line breaks, capitalisation and particularly quotation marks – I think it looks clunky with them but makes little sense without?
Thanks 🙂

The Basement Tapes
A conversation.
Renovated concrete basement and whiskey.

“Walking with a friend in the dark is better than walking alone in the light”

He quotes from his heart
Blood pact dripping from his thoughts
Swirling round the alcohol, I watch him fingering a bookshelf.

“If your whole life was a poem
Onstage, instead of a spotlight, a film fragment:
What would it show?”

The estate, the thin birch tree, fingering
a Swiss Army knife, still glittering

Carving tracks on that neighbours garden
with bicycles and swear words we’d found in the kitchen.
Think about two brothers armed to the teeth with mud,
All that damage caused by the loss,
Beheaded tulips.

“That film – would it show Hell?”

A film of a disco ball, every CCTV, every home video
How fragile I was,  every weakness
Exposed, flaws lined with LEDs,
I, flicker so uneasily
Smash the bulbs, smash myself

All electricity, burnt fuses, glass, wrath
Becomes coal, to burn

“Think of it as -“
He promises Hell
He promises
“-the devil is two brothers.
See, God created this world, and it’s hurt
So the lonely man would turn to him, pining for comfort

In light, that film, God wants you alone on his side
But we don’t need no world, no light, no Swiss Army knife.
What we need is -“
Jonesboro, Springfield, Newton, Columbine.
҉۬- us. God
Created this world for us to need him, everything in it
But two brothers could shun it.
Forget the spotlight, we could make the film great.”

I wrap a bandage round my doubts
His words leave pinpricks in my calluses,
My hands were constellations of death
Wondering where all the midges went
When we crushed them in berry picked fingers as kids, brothers
Hiding behind a cobbled wall.

I sit peeling .
Scuffing boots till the leather peels off like plastic burning
Stare burning like a smuggled lighter when I tried
to set my sisters Barbie on fire.
The burn that never stops, Chinese and twisting,
Big kids in a playground, missing
Forget to call the ambulance, listening,
Bedroom doors, Sawed off recoil, fist in
the gap between the tooth, dripping,
Nine Inch Nails, a diary page, itching,
Peeled too much skin, thinking

“The film is of a red crayon
Snapped in anger, as a kid, crushed into the carpet
Then when he beats me for it, for anything
I see it, blood at my feet.
Crayons always runs out like childhood, time, patience,
A magazine.
I keep them all, worn down, in a box under my bed
Next to the shells, the shotgun.
Roll them over my tongue when I talk of God
And craving everything I could be
Craving blood at my feet.”

They wouldn’t see us coming.

“A film over our eyes, a legacy
Make the TVs chant our names”

Like the neighbour used to scream out of her broken blinds

҉۬This is destiny
Big, unfathomable, necessary”

He promises
“We’d make the dark our own.”

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