Ghosts of ghosts. How
celluloid leaves a lingering shadow,
long after black has faded
through multi-coloured lights,
a half-remembered figure demurring
to the rhythm of a staccato
I want to see, again. To rewind
the illusory lantern shadows;
play with strings of marionettes.
To hide behind the projector booth,
to fiddle with the stopwatch, to time
you, so expertly...
...a memory, listless, of a midnight screening…
…your hand leading me
down the narrow corridor of street,
where shadows danced, whirling,
raging, where I could entreat your
image, where I could read your title-card…
...ghosts of ghosts. What is it about dark places?
Where we find ourselves replaying the same six
frames in rapid succession, where we play with the
timing, in search of – something better.
I want to see again. Please, play it again.
What difference will it make?

View this poem on The Disappearing »

Hamish Wood reads 'Fade Out'