by Jamie Seymour

The reel burns pictures onto the cold screen,
Growing stains on the linen like wild ink blots,
The miasma of warped plastic, noxious and charred,
Paper absorbs acid concoctions,
The harsh projector beam reveals truth
To the flawed and futile eye.
Growing, the flickering stain keeps burning sheets and perceptions.
Ambushing them, a shock they say.
The tape unpeeled, it keeps twisting and turning,
Click, clack,
Automatically careless,