Cult-Classics

Standard

Night falls,

As Ana slides open the screen-door,

And snuck into her house with her friends,

While her parents 

sleep peacefully,

Unaware of tonight’s meeting.

The following entered single file,

Approached the shelf,

gathered around,

And pored over

the needed materials.

Meticulously,

They made their selections,

Offerings that each member agreed to.

Each had their own predilections

Toward eighties ultra violence,

Black comedy,

Or pre-recorded VHS tapes,

Of since-cancelled television,

With commercial breaks,

Intact.

“Cut the lights,”

The time has come

for another sleepless night,

Sitting entranced.

Volume at near-silence,

Doors tightly shut,

Muffling cheers for the anti-hero,

Laughter and schadenfreude,

Shuffling seats,

To avoid

potential tut-tuts

Of disgruntled authority.

Simple 3D Simulations

Standard

What appears to be,

The scene, it seems,

Blinks on the screen.

A wire-frame man,

Faceless, raceless,

Walks toward the door.

Each movement,

Stiff and robotic,

He pauses,

And lifts,

A package.

He pulls a key,

From an unseen,

Pocket.

He slices,

The packing tape,

Opens the flat-flaps,

And out come,

Rubber snakes,

And confetti.

We assume he,

Is shocked,

As he falls,

And rocks,

On the floor.

You turn from the monitor,

And look at the clock.

It took you 13 hours,

To make this,

In 1996.

You win four awards,

Some golf-claps,

And a baseball cap.