It came from the top
I thought we were about to
be plunged into darkness
for the whole evening
But it came from above
I saw the prism fan out
light the screen from the
projector box above and beyond.
He had one arm around my shoulder
and I wanted him to let go and
move away completely or kiss me,
Either end of the spectrum
would have been satisfactory
But he did neither
And in that under-lit back row
In the bitty haze of the projector’s stare
My regime took shape and order.
Crime would only be committed in
the darkest of basements and
everywhere there was light,
there was hope.
Special dispensation was to be given
to writers and artists and musicians
to use black light to create monstrously
terrifying works of splendour and magnitude.
When the lights went up
the whirr of the projector caught my attention
Only one more thing for reinvention.