Like watching the grass grow - like being awake
between acts as scenery changes; so you think
you’re on the team - maybe the scriptwriter who
dreams up dialogue, dramatically delivered bon
mots - but its pedestrian in extreme, an ageless
parody, pastiche you’d leave gratefully shelved
where reveries are comfortable ‘isms’ - without
a rapaciously edited time or place to date them
This’s in-between; either you’ve changed or its
a re-take of an act so far away from whom you
believe you used to be you can’t see it so, and
slower than death-throes of a kraken’s making
the grade better than your ‘faux’ imagination’s
graceless but gratuitously rave masquerade
© 2 March 2015, I. D. Carswell
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