If Death directed a Major Motion Picture we’d get a musical:
Sound of Music, Carousel, and Rocky Horror, shot 4D,
Celestial, karmic, infernal, choreography and and all that jazz by Fosse;
Or just director’s comments on the DVD and deleted scenes, alternate endings –
Links to extinct contests or sites we can blog to oblivion.
If Death directed a Major Motion Picture we’d get no sequels:
The same thing but different is not Hell but reassurance,
Remakes, fanfic, tactfully nipped by franchisor –
Or each iteration as fresh as the first time you ducked the huge rolling ball,
Gagged at shot vomit, only handsomer, more dimensional leads each time, Clooney for Grant.
If Death directed a Major Motion Picture we’d get more than bargained for:
Hamlet’s quivering obsession our heart’s, Kent’s illness at the green stuff our gut’s,
The Stooge’s hammer blow to the brain our own hollow tone –
Or a cynical knowledge of all endings, all cheap short cuts, all bastardised Odysseys,
Sad gap after original novel, stolen MacGuffin, better Danish original.
But Death does not direct, lucky, gets Associate Producer credit:
As we recline in the dark, hoping nobody sees our tears, we let go
For better or worse, richer or poorer, in the Auteur’s sleight of hands –
And whether we pray for Goddard but get Stone or for Jackson but get Bakshi,
Smuggle your own sweet snacks for the popcorn is too dear.