Image Track

The projectionist is getting lazy,
let slip the image track and
put the exposision in backwards.
Now the audience boo and hiss
This isn't what they paid for
what the hell kind of silver dream is this?
More like metal machine music than hollywood fantasy.
The masses twist and writhe in oversized chairs, black plastic hole where once their beverage sat now thrown in disgust at the canvas through which they escape but backwards
- the picture go into their heads through the eyes flickering at 24 frames per second lulling them into a false sense of security.
The sounds of rioting flickering back and forth overlapping faint ghosts of confused group rage. Fade In with farmyard symphony.
That was all they needed. They took to the aisles and ripped and scratched and bite at all - fabric torn with stuffing like genetically modified snow flakes caught on freon eddies speaker cones punctured adding uncomfortable buzz to scenes of love making laid down with London rush-hour soundtrack fighting for mind time with a hundred directionless voices pulled free of concious thought dragging behind them barely connected nervous system. One poor sap so shaken with delirium tried to throw himself on the mercy of the sacred projection - ran full tilt at the screen, tried to jump into the celluiod flicker his broken body fell to the floor eyes all icarus but empty.

As mob hands pulled door handles sick realisation falls over the now hushed audience
- they'd been locked in.
disturbed faces swing back and forth over a sea of vocalised confusion as conciousness slowlly falls into place once again.

They never noticed the milky smoke pouring into the room untill one by one they began to sputter and choke, grasping at windpipes while eyes bug out in sockets sweeping cascade of pantomime death across the room.
Mothers fall to the floor in death spasm as others follow suit in unspoken acknowledgement of subliminal matriacrchal authority.
Bodies drop in mounds around green-lit exits.

(c) Adam Cheshire, 2003