Monday, September 14, 2009

Not really poetry, almost pulp

A wounded bird
A hurtful word
A sarcastic smile
An unused pile
Haggard summers
And rims of rust
Bloated nights
And fingernail dust
Tasteful sludge and mucky blood
Searing sermons in an explosive flood
golden flowers with Jules Winnfield
To urge and push and use to yield
Magenta slits on the wifey's wrist
Vincent Vega and the twist
trippy dreams and vanilla shakes
Marsellus' fiefdom in smokes and quakes
Snaky music that twists the brain
And haunts and hurts like acrylic rain
Pulverizing shocks and beautifully so
What were you thinking, tarantino?


on a clear night, you see THAT movie sparkiling in its own constellation of unprecedented genius...a constellation of one

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