Theatre Poem by Diana van den Berg

Rubber screams
and then the bang
and metal turning on itself,
…..and then the sirens.

Amidst the debris,
bodies strewn like amputated butterfly wings,
move or moan or merely breathe,
and then there are the others.
Blood flows unchecked on dark blue tar.

Like an orchestrated wave,
eager androids,
who daily cry, ‘Peace from Violence’
rush from warm retreats
into the road and the cold night rain,
crowding the wings, the steps, the stage,
to stand compacted in a circle
for the best impact of acoustics,
lighting
and atmosphere,
gawking at the bloody players,
digging a new vantage point
when one or other puerile puppet dares to obscure the view.
Feasting vultures fight,
but
for their rightful portion
and clear their living space of disease
as they were intended,
but these clones from some third-rate horror movie,
count dead bodies gleefully,
and argue about which live body moaned and when,
and if the thought occurred to them
would be grateful to the playwright for the entertainment,
which … for a while … fills the spaces around the sparse grey coils
in their hollow civilised heads,
taking mental notes for those who don’t
have tickets…

… but then the blood stops flowing
and the actors leave the stage
in ambulances which scream their cargo’s plight,
and, like painkillers,
the adrenalin wanes,
and, with one last glance at remaining props
to get the details right,
the spectators turn themselves
and their thoughts
away
in bunches
to substitute tomorrow’s talking point
for warmth, coffee, biscuits and disaster on the small screen …… for a while.

(1998)