I was writing my poetry in the dressing room the other day. So caught up was I in semantic couplets, I missed my entrance. Running onto the stage, I totally forgot my meat cleaver, which my character uses to to threaten the Olinda family into silence. Time to improvise, and this is where the trained thesp streaks ahead of the paltry efforts of the amateur. Seizing a oven glove, I threatened the family and the scene worked a treat. Afterwards, the director, Mylosh Stravin, came to see me in the dressing room. As he does not speak English I had to go by his use of body language to gauge and absorb his message. As he slammed the wardrobe door on my head for the sixth time, I picked up some dissatisfaction with my performance. I don't remember him leaving. When I regained consciousness, I picked up my poetry and continued my prose, albeit with a couple of spots of blood falling on my manuscript. I would like to share this with you now. It's about bees.
Oh, honey bee
You do see
The flowers that are
here for me
you know the route
to find your nectar
and don't have to
put up with stupid
directors who know nothing
of conventional theatre techniques
Stupid Pole. Stupid Stupid Pole.
There is apparently interest in the anthology of my poetry. I am going to try another now.
Winged Chariot of Time
Thy hours pass relentless
Chime the clock
Chime the clock
Owls hoot
Can this really be Newtoxeter?
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