theatre in the round

johnpoetflanagan

without a defining arch or separating steps
we’re meant to see ourselves as we are
always with our backs to someone as we perform
our hands and faces interactive entering and going out
through the audience or rising from a mechanic wonderpit
a cauldron blood of bat limb of toad heart of constrictor
stirred with a magic eagle feather and a chant
foretelling spectacular rise and fall
or alleging from imaginary battlement murder most foul
arguments of salesmen who live beyond final lines

we’ve never been anywhere else
but in this indistinguishable from real
vehicle for looks and notice pathos and derision
these stuffed bears of happiness and tragedy
making us think so to speak

scripts delivered with hesitations
what? er well you know maybe
rehearsed vernacular verisimilitude
but they’d like us to think not
the best the self-appointed critic at the interval bar
comes up with while downing something…

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