Saturday, June 9, 2012

Aftermath of An Atomic

Aftermath of An Atomic


Second Man.
Second Woman.


In a dark, black void, all but the characters faces and hands are lit. When Human is introduced above them, he is nude among the black void.

Man. Where... Where are we? On the cusp from life to death or death to life? What else keeps us afloat but hope? Dreams quiver and shudder. They beat their hopeless wings, and beg the mind for fulfillment. Their wings ill and worn, fragile and breakable as dry leaves. Only the wind will ask for hope, but wind is feared and full of fire.
Woman. Fire is full of fury.
Second Woman. Fury is full of fire.
Human. Fear is full of loss.
Second Man. Years from now you’ll be in a wheelchair. Wheeling around and worried. Where is your brother? He is a member of transparent dust. He is a member of small minuscule particles. He is more of what is less.
Second Woman. The ocean is paradise. Full of all who need no reason to question. This is love. Divide all fury, and you’ll have reason. The vast protein shake of sea.
Man. Fury is?
Woman. A hopeful resolute.
Second Man. A hopeful burst into greater conviction.
Second Woman. A weapon to use for hope achievement.
Human. A moral absurdity.
Man. We always seek infinite power.
Second Woman. What a glorious blood drawn game.
Second Man. Love died and fell into absurdity.
Human. Life is immorally deferred.
Second Woman. Life becomes immediately deterred.
Human. Life is unessential.
Woman. We are the wingless, agnostic angels begging for hope.
Man. HERE! QUIET! SILENT! Above us, in the clouds, the people among us pray to the agnostic cloud by agnostics angels like us, begging the butcher.
Woman. Butcher by what?
Man. Butcher is what?
Human. Butcher is producer.
Second Woman. Butcher is God.
Human. Butcher is God. God is God and imagination.
Man. Imagination is our inheritance.
Woman. Inheritance is our birth right. Give us less scrutiny.
Man. We’re angels, no?
Woman. Born into the world like locusts from the Mayflower. Our albatross wings crippled on the ship from a boatman’s bullet, stranded and heavy, balancing on the middle of the beam.
Man. Womb.
Woman. Whom?
Man. Womb. When we introduce ourselves from the lotus, we are not heavy- light as puppets.
Second Man. We are as brittle as dust- since that is what we are.
Woman. Dust.....
Second Woman. Dust.....
Man. Dust.....
Second Man. Dust.....
Human. An unbelievable acknowledgement of our future. Small particles that mean nothing.

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