The Room

A lens retracts.
The bagging and crabbing are done.
The actors leave.

Through an open window:
One moon and three stars.
The forth: an Airbus A380.

The curtains smell creamy lemon and cabbage.

On a mantle above the fireplace: an atomiser made of fired saliva and scrotum containing the essence of a man from a suburb on the edge of London.
He was warned but did not listen and now it’s too late.

On a milking stool in a corner: a bowl containing eyeballs contracting into pellets.
To moisten they must roll. Unfortunately, their rolling days are done.

On the wall: a sailboat thrust up toward sky.
You can't always be THAT guy, the sky seems to say.