The Grand Guignol

Grand Guignol

The dead
are strolling among
the jagged rocks
beneath black umbrellas,
marking the desert landscape
like inky black dots upon
old parchment.

They have
no plan apparent,
wandering like old testament
extras through some
god-of-wrath’s barren movie set,
the sun harshly lighting
each scene.

The director
sits upon his dais just
out of the shot,
his directions falling upon
deaf ears, his leading man
and lady practicing their lines
in an air-conditioned trailer,
prophets on call.

Eventually his
vision will fall into place,
final credits rolling,
the critics sharpening
their carving knifes, fans
declaring it another classic,
the public deciding its fate
at the box office.

In the end
the dead won’t give
a damn, just keep wandering
like they always have
to nowhere specific, their
black umbrellas becoming
tattered with age, their souls
still under contract.