What became of extras,
Always dressed in grey;
One or two make limelight,
Did many die afraid?

The fray is also velveteen
On antlers in stag-youth;
They rub it on the oaken trunks,
It’s like an aching tooth.

No one knows the minds of deer
Despite the rhymes of men;
Wherever fall the extras then
It’s not for me to deign.

Production Lines

A killer resurrected
On carnival streets,
Arrested, re-sentenced,
By wigs weighing meat,
Though fogs are a prop
And a juror’s asleep.
In the filmmaker’s lens
Victims aren’t heroes,
The victims are missing,
Their paycheck’s a zero.

Each vision has errors,

Ruptures and holes, Boxed set collections, Out from death doled.
Dear Mr Producer,
What good is your lesson,
Your replays reduce
Any sanctified blessings.
You’ll profit in pounds
And buy your new houses,
From parental lost souls
And bloodstains on blouses.