torch

I’m driving downhill
there’s a woman on the gas
covered in blood
I don’t know who she is
but I could take a guess

guinevere

there - I guessed
I bundle her into a cellar
where launcelot is already waiting
tied to a chair
like the space shuttle to its rocket
the cellar is amorphous

cavelike

expanding and contracting in the swaying wafts
which flicker and leap  repulsive walls
as I torch the guy
it’s very simple
he’s imolated like fluff on grease
then I shoot the mute lady just in case she’d ever lived
like an antithetical shot
sucking her image from the latent negative
to be transparently obliterated
in one quick flash of pop art bang.

I’m outside the cave and the car on a hilltop
watching my back as a sudden breeze tears past
blathering torn pages from an unread script
into the dead branches of winter trees
stood like booing tombstones
above the long abandoned entrance
to a defunct victorian railway tunnel  
you can photograph anything now
as long as it’s black.