Sentinel Poetry: Expression Warehouse



Scene: Cavity-strewn backstreet tram tracks like sinews Close-up: Blast of black from mud-caked Volga pitching slowly from camera. Dissolve to sway of tight jewelled jeans, long legs, hips, real fur. Screech of brakes. Rolexed wrist opens door to Volga. Fast forward sequence through city like a Renaissance ceiling to three-domed church  burning with gold leaf. Screech of brakes. Door opens to religious silence studded with cawing of circling crows. Close Up: Flawless black shoes stride on white gravel and stop in front of gravestone. Pan down italic inscription which reads:
"Once,  I strolled past this point…
Do you get the hint?"
Explosion of Cossack music and raucous laughter  from face of New Russian. Expanding flash of light from gold tooth  burns hole in film celluloid. Credits roll.  Dasvadanya.

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