Franco's face is getting wider
wilder over time.
his forehead is broadening,
his eyes slide out sidewards, sinking inwards,
brow rising like an item of concern,
and becoming strong.
he's becoming a bird.
a man in transmutation into an aeriael, a raptor,
spike-taloned, and vision sharpening
to fix upon scurrying rodents detected from at 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 was hair.
the famous man's anus and penis casually join to form a plain cloaca,
bernoulli forces enabling aerobatical feats
about which an actor might only have prev'ously dreamed.
what strange kind of films will he make now?
what cineastic narratives await capable reckoning between feedings on field mice, and voles devour'd,
enabled by an fantastic change of state?