James Franco's face is getting wider,
wilder over time.
His forehead is broadening,
his eyes sliding sidewards, sinking inwards,
brow rising like an item of concern
and becoming strong.
He's becoming a bird.
A man in transmutation into an ariael, a raptor,
spike-taloned, and vision sharpening
to fix a stone gaze upon scurrying rodents detected from great height.
Maybe soon he'll leave us, diminished on the ground, to solely inhabit an avian home in the clouds,
or in a conspicuous fit of zugunruhe, fly south,
a gorgaious halo of feathers framing avian features where once there'd been hair.
The famous man's anus and penis conjoin to form a plain cloaca.
Bernoulli forces enabl3 aerobatical feats
about which an actor might only have prev'ously dreamed.
What strange kind of films will he make now?
What brave cineastic narratives await capable reckoning 'twixt feedings on field mice,
and voles devour'd,
enabled by this fantastic change of state?