at the moonlight splayed, shot on the dirt floor, silver and soft.
we were shooting the les murray biopic & it was all going cheaply to plan
	(for cannes)
plenty of slow pans and montages – a bit short on action scenes
and I, like a lost hitchhiker, watching
all my lovers proving to be props in some
macabre film, in black and white. A sliver of light in the loft, three drops, hatching
noir thought-bubbles above John Howard’s latex scalp
he daydreams of ship building, of being a people smuggler
or something else, nothing to do with people, their syntax and derision:
a matter of semantics and position position position.
the fleshy innocent wolf morphed into mist
all the cue cards lost in a tumble
wrapped in the travellers towel, the make-up artist’s breasts pressed against 	his head
and he ordered three ships sailing by but cardboard was cheaper to come by
a trickle of red stained its beauty where the beast lay dead
still there were those who believed that once more it could raise its ugly head
from its place in the dirt ; shot & bleeding it lay still , one paw ambling 	through its guts
	(now on the outside) ; the redness lost in the B&W concocktion (thankfully) ;
fade to white; cut; print.
Why does the devil wear his trousers inside out? we ask.