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.

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