At Oddfellows Playhouse
The stage is stark, a black box.
The stage is stark, a black box.
It lends itself to litter—
Empty bottles, broken chair,
Sticks, a tattered broom.
The set defines the King’s unquiet flesh,
Lame gestures, shadow kin;
His uncouth realm
Inhabits this lifeless plain.
His bony orbits frame
Bewildered eyes
That starve for meaning.
That starve for meaning.
His hair wisps wild.
He gropes, he grasps.
He tries to make a stand.
He roars, he raves,
He gibbers.
He gibbers.
And now and then he speaks,
Names, his daughters and his blood.
He roils, he stews, he rants on them.
He flails, he stomps, he strains.
Is he haunted then? Or haunting?
Is he haunted then? Or haunting?
Or only craving what he thinks is his?
Babble, baffle, battle: The King.
Shakespeare in Pinter paint.
If you see it for yourself,
If you see it for yourself,
Ask questions. Maybe
You will find an answer.
You will find an answer.
1 comment:
It is an incredible show.
What devours a man's insanity?
Perseverance over regrets, anguish, and contempt.
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