Motion Picture

by Nirankar Phull

On the fixed screen, the reel burns random stains
Into the stretched out linen. A film.
The scorching and offensive reek of coiling plastic,
Paper exposed to the brewing acids,
The iciness of the unveiled bulb,
All for the impotent and useless eyes.
Projected, the glowing stains burn through sheets and judgements.
“They slaughtered them”, they say.
The free-flowing belt goes round and round.
Click, clack.
Mindless and automatic.
Click,
clack.