theatre of cruelty by theatre of cruelty
A poem, CALLED "theatre of cruelty!" That's branding, baby!
I am most cruel when I move on the page. I can’t
repeat what I write. It was showtime when
my feet hit the bruise-black of Brooklyn. My
competition works harder than I do. Talent is
old news.
I catch your friends’ eyes on me and of course I
weigh my options. I don't do it for very long.
The show must, in fact, go on. And everyone
does this, you know. We just can’t say it in
civilized company.I feel like a foreigner when I touch you too
early. I teach you how to hold my throat so
I can carry on living, and so you will not hear me
apologize for missing my cue. I am a bad actor.
You are not hard
to understand. The mechanics of story are different
where I'm from, but we do watch television. I'm sorry
before I can learn because I do not want to learn. You
direct me. I am an amateur. I want to be understood.
When we define violence
as the limiting of what's possible, even kindness
can be a weapon. I don't know violence the way
they make it here, but I do know what I'm doing
when I choke on my lines, and on the arch between
your stacked thumb and forefingers.
A good critic can see what's working even when
a show goes off the rails. We direct each other and I
become sensitive to the movement of the art. I don't like
to lose the upper hand. I am appropriately arrogant
for the demands of my work.
When you look most like yourself, you look just
like I wrote you. I slouch towards our deadline,
and in my panic repeat lines from some other show.
I cannot work under these conditions. I'm not
taking notes right now.
When this all gets shut down, I carry on breathing,
offer your players an exciting collaborative opportunity.
My cruelty moves inside me and it sounds just like hope.
In heaven there is an empty theatre.
No one has been there for years.This poem is free for anyone who cares to read it, but there’s more information about my composition and editorial process behind the paywall: