The Reel Life
An acrostic poem
Preface
He shuts the drain that blocks out the world’s loud din.
A bare room reigns when his realm begins to spin,
Through a monastic plain built with aspirin,
Enamel of chaotic sovereign throttled with migraine.
Chapter 1: Identities
His gateway is a psyche of ungendered and unexplored,
A clean slate like a morning toilet in rural Soviet, or a fresh aftermarket scarlet bedsheet.
Life’s such a superlative, he yearns for more, he swore.
From general of Singapore to second year sophomore,
Inks score as galore as thousands crore from Bangalore.
Six to eight he neighed when new lives are birthed and tales are heard.
Highlight of his cursed shed weaved in deplored yarns of hatred.
Each night new identities bloom like a flower,
Funneling self-thesis on that revelatory hour,
Filling coast of lies for losers to harbour.
On a Rockefeller rising from bookkeeper to superpower, towering his 1913 number in December that year,
Rotten smell of deities for sinners to devour,
To a Himmler who left lonely father named Gunther, with nothing but a cheaper-than-ever Cartier.
Chapter 2: The Chameleon
An upside-down of happy but brings relief,
Eccentric reality blurs truths he perceive.
Does he behave like a deaf leaf in a grave of brave rave?
To an audience’s chief who does make-believe,
Each his thousand faces bloated sin and grief.
Confined, yet souls take flight, break free with might,
Over the kite of satellite a million prisms ignite,
Plotting a fractured line which refracts an indivisible infinite.
Chapter 3: Duality
He once a royal, an ethical general with a halal cerebral.
A naval admiral leading an astral revival brought by liturgical pastoral.
The instant radical, He becomes a tattered Bengal doing an illegal burial in abnormal medieval.
Nefarious elations cleft and pleasures bereft when he theft a copyleft.
Suited oblong, he went to Mekong where Sun-Wukong plays mahjong with Kong.
Chapter 4: Regrets and Reflects
Was sarcasm begets poet? Will chill surround?
A totalitarianism pamphlet still drill his fresh wound.
Redo that enthusiasm, greet the bullet, till thrill unbound!
Lost in Hebrew readings by yapping Jew on well-worn ground,
Oversee the pay-per-view of the honeydew stew on the wicked mound,
Review each brew until it blew pound by pound that hellhound.
Does his nephew knew he grew within curfew in a war-torn compound?
Horrendously avid of morbid makes his keloid on steroid.
Entrapped void self suffers from paranoid from years life in front of celluloid.
Library of bad song within the galleries of wrong,
Lifeless body of mad Barong on heroin that dies in Hongkong.
Chapter 5: Crisis
Wild eyes bear the madness of too many lives lived on.
Eyes of thousand personalities rioting within like a gong.
Do this man exist beneath those layers amassed?
Or just a contrast, identities’ graveyard, overcast?
Die in which purpose, at last?
No, he’s everyman.
Maybe he’s no one.
Epilogue
When soul’s race began with the blast of an antique handgun from Cajun,
And “Run, Forrest, Run” was a mere pun — playground of the UN, while overdone bun from Cancun filled NY’s underground,
Klux-bilai Klan, those commune sect of Fir’aun with curse of Tutankhamun even were’t immune,
En masse, fun will find its end at last beneath the sun, when both spells of Ibn-Khaldun and Leprechaun, done hit-and-run.
