Odeon Walkout

by Aidan Andrew Dun

I ponder often the ‘mystical’ fact that things are only relatively real down here. This place isn’t 100% real, though incredibly convincing to the unpractised eye. Analogically, sometimes watching a good movie or a play we become deeply involved, then, in a moment of detachment, we remember.

 
 
 

Popcorn stinks of rancid butter,
in row behind someone sneezes;
onscreen some psychotic nutter
does with heroine as he pleases.
Nerves are grated down to synapse,
heart’s the drum a demon raps;
palms are slick with anxious sweat,
how much darker can it get?
There! One vivid bright-green word
illuminates this situation:
‘Exit’ means non-habituation,
sign which makes everything absurd.
Leaving auditorium:
illusion’s moratorium.

 
 
 

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