Just Like The Movies (Poetry)

The swish, exclusive Viper Room —
the in place to be seen
rubbing padded shoulders with
the stars of stage and screen —

where River played the rebel,
shooting high and fast and wild,
sure he’d live forever —
a flame proof super-child.

So he mixed his lethal pleasures
amongst the monied glitz,
speeding like a comet
on a dizzy burnout blitz —

his final live performance
spinning careless and blasé,
as ecstasy crash landed,
all sensation blown away.

Unconscious on the sidewalk,
the unsympathetic night
rolling on regardless,
freeze-framed in neon light,

his dying pose unscripted —
no lines, the drama told
by Death’s obscene director,
spontaneous and cold.

Unedited or censored,
the reels wind on again,
while colleagues snort for comfort
to deaden stardom’s pain.