lights, camera, bloodsplatter

mr owl  
how many ounces of alcohol    
does it take to get to the center    
of self-undoing    
   
at exactly what hour of the night  
do shots of liquor  
begin to taste like heartache    
and grief  
while  
festering secrets of    
your conscience    
threaten to materialize  
in front of    
an audience; each body, an observant vessel  
emanating a thin veil of carbon dew  
  tiny drops animating the lense of perspective
silently waiting  
collective disconnect further    
clouded    
by anticipation    
   
alas  
the masses take several    
seats  
pleased to see    
opening credits embrace    
amassing anxieties  
as your own feature presentation    
draws near    
for tonight's screen premiere    
   
closed eyes slowly tracing    
abstract provocations adorning the decorum    
  rattling speakers  
    waking lepers  
      uncaging psychosis    
   
overhead alarms    
howl a language of requisition    
hence  
an emergence    
of the security personnel inquisition    
militant and disciplined; a brigade fueled by presupposition    
weaponized flashlights maneuvering theater aisles    
demand ticketed verification    
of entrance authorization    
   
but daydreams of vindication    
crippled by echoes  
of  
surrounding walls    
trailing whispers  
that    
your blood    
is    
worth no weight    
beyond the designated payment due date    
   
cracks in the    
concrete surface seeping  
   humiliation    
     condemnation  
leaving    
layers of flesh  
    peeled back slowly from    
the bone    
shown to expose    
a parasitic infection    
unafflicted by medication  
when following    
the directions    
on your prescription    
is as fleeting as  
your understanding of    
your own convictions  
and what contempt  
you'll feel  
to find  
that even stars cast in lead roles    
are still subject to crucifixion    
once they find themselves  
indebted by sacrilege    
unable to afford    
the thoughts they've been scripted