Gaumont Matinee To a rattling choreography of bullets The actors fly like acrobats, last-ditch yells Ballooning on their wake. Out of range The audience sit munching peanuts; Before they need shout ‘Ambulance!’ or ‘Help!’, The hero arrives dead-on-time to ensure Bloodshed keeps a safely celluloid size. Where is the villain but in some backroom Stirring poisons? How innocent is his Badness that knows nothing else although, yes, The state-of-the-artiness of his weapons (Test-tube tarantulas with radar, Remote-controlled snakes, steel frizbies, lasers) Superannuates the good old delights Of hiss-and-boo. His face is a monotone Of malice, accent calculatedly Foreign with sharpened vowels. It’s hard work. One snicker could be fatal, a volley Of belly-laughter wreak more havoc Than any missile. Yet at x dollars per second Our hero is as cool as buttermint, Distress his oyster. Demented violins – Silence – A cineramic boom! As planned, The whole set goes up in smoke. Foes scuttled, He rides happily into the Ever After aglint with the names of stars. O that all endings were so spectacular! The hero’'s triumph supplies a signal For us to scour pockets for the bus-fare Home.    Once outside the coddled dark Our eyes goggle for a focus and ache At the stark pervasiveness of light – Past Barclay’s Bank, Woolworth’s, Tesco’s Narrative thinning out in all directions Then back to where we were before... Martin Bennett | Mudlark No. 12 Contents | Nigerian Nocturne