The smell of synthetic velvet
The creaking of hinges
It arises from its sleep
Ready to be picked
The silver-tipped snake
Glistens in the bright light
The box shines a small glow
Of red
The snake makes contact
With a plug in the box
The first movement of a hand
And an instant wail
The man
He moves, grooves; waves his body
Drops to his knees, then lies down
The movement of the arm becoming softer
Finally he ends
Smashing his axe through the box
It shorts
And flames begin to lick its black vinyl
Everything is now destroyed
Stands toppled over
Snakes entangled between boxes
With nothing left but ashes
And waterlogged remnants of
Wood and paint
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