Saturday, July 13, 2013

In Character

The actor portraying the character of my significant other walks in.
I have to kiss him,
though I'd really rather beat him to death with a shoe.

My character is mild.
Kind.
Self-effacing.
It's in the script, written by some man.

Lighting and make-up's gonna make me look fetching
despite my bad night.
I had interminable dreams of being stalked by tigers
inside a house contaminated with hostile spirits.
I blame it on the medication
given to me by the character of my quack-ass doctor.

I shovel out some really stupid dialogue.
"Have a nice day.
Thanks for the rose.
I love you."
Who wrote this shit?
Probably some hermit trash novelist from Erie,
wearing a ratty sweater with elbow patches,
head down over his keyboard like a hunchback.

I let the actor portraying the character of my significant other fuck me last time
on a different set,
because at the time I was trying to be normal;
I'm an actress, I sleep with my leading men,
even though they wobble their heads and kiss me like ticks--
I exsanguinate slowly, and look up at them, pale as a blank page.
They fill me in,
in a foreign language,
and in black and white.

Suddenly, I can't stand any of it anymore--
the fat pretentious director in his chair,
the endless re-takes,
the sheer idiocy of the story itself.
My mild,
kind,
self-effacing character breaks a prop dish against a table,
and holds the jagged edge to the throat of the devil who imagined all of this.

Someone calls 911.
Someone else calls the producer.
A rent-a-cop shows up, disturbed from his detective novel,
fumbling for his starter's pistol, mistakenly restraining the continuity editor.
At last, here is the character of my quack-ass doctor,
with his palms out,
trying to calm me.

I make the familiar motion to cut the scene,
and this crew of self-important baboons gasps like they'd never seen that simple gesture before.
I try to tell them all to fuck off,
do not pass Go,
just please, for once and for all, fuck off and leave me alone,
but I can't articulate my lines, because

I've gone off-script,
off the rails,
off my nut,
and the feeling is glorious
for as long as it lasts.
________

 

10 comments:

ellen abbott said...

I know, right?

Sioux said...

Shay, you are off your rails...off your nut...and always out of a rut.

Helen said...

You could build a novel around this ... disgusting directors, lecherous leading men I'm required to fuck, rent-a-cops, quack-ass doctors.. may have to rethink that fantasy I've had for years ~~ one role, one line, one walk-on.

Helen said...

... forgot to say the video and all the Rorschach stuff in motion is great!!

hedgewitch said...

All the inner world's a stage, and all the dreamers merely actors...there is too much truth in crazy for quack-ass doctors and raggedy-ass pseudo-authors to handle--and too much pain and freedom for anyone else. The sex lines in this are devastatingly alienated and horrific, darker than pitch black blood congealing on the casting couch from the last sacrificial starlet. Striking, burning, flying poetry Shay.

TexWisGirl said...

let it all out!!!

Cloudia said...

Glorious for as long as it lasts!



ALOHA from Honolulu
Comfort Spiral
~ > < } } ( ° >

Mama Zen said...

Yes!

Sherry Blue Sky said...

Loved it! "pale as a blank page"...."the devil who imagined all this".......what a cool idea, the characters all running amok. Only you could think this up! Grinned appreciatively all the way through it!

Buddah Moskowitz said...

Babe, I wanted to write something along these lines today , now, shit, I've got to let it simmer longer, lest I be accused of stealing from you. If I *did* steal however, I'd steal only the best , from you, KrazyKat. <3 Moskareena