Saturday, June 04, 2016

Carter and Maria in the Desert

My heart is a broken flower. Fuck me. Don't do that. Do it this way
That is how The West was won. Hollywood cowboys cutting into film
In screening rooms they cuss, cut create what we know as blue noir
Belle Fleur was her nom du plume. She envisioned The Golden Age
L'Age d'or, Bunuel hysteria. Suicidal chefs making chocolate roux
She had a room with a view overlooking an archway within a garden
Where she snail-tapped her way thinking male gender emasculation
Mundo civilizado. Long drives along lonely Los Angeles highways
In bloom, face like lilac, she listens to Cage the Elephant remixes
What is this the press to play gee whiz affectations of entitlement?
Must clouds creep so low - not while in our bathing suits we vent
Cram disposable logic inside hot breezy quips that qualify as gizz
Jazz. Thelonious Monk's Epistrophy. We zoom in and out of scenes
Roles heartthrobs play man-sizing. Their star-lit lovers fib and faint
Young Warren Beatty would do it differently. So would Paul Newman
Perhaps the wife beater exposing his American flesh. Jack Lalanne
No, a young Paul Newman wouldn't walk the floor porno pathetic
He'd play her down like a boss man with a bow and an upright bass
Watch him grip the fold of hair, tilt her head back lightly, breathe on
With these words he'd say to her commands from a Southern beau
Looking at a Ruscha painting and knowing where you came from
This is Hollywood. North by Northwest. Mann's Chinese Theatre
We fight among the cinematographers, grapple with our posture