&louise brooks in vats of twelve yr old boys with tooth aches spinning &tony randall covered in purple smoke grinning &as long as you listen to willie dixon, undressing in front of an eighteenth century mirror covered with golden leeches of the facetious kind; the fatuousness of twins dressing like debbie reynolds sleeping in gardens with superhuman egos covered in duct tape and rashes and berries and the maids come in wearing pajamas looking quite melancholic and spitting eggshells from their belly buttons and they say “hey, you there, with the beard!” “me?” i say “yes, you, the freak! the creature from the blue lagoon! you! you!” “what?” i say and they say “are you really wearing those tigers as shoes or do you think that bowtie makes you look smarter?” i can’t hardly answer with all the llamas kissing the window shades and the maids…now chloe is standing, now she’s strutting from the corner with twigs in her serpent hair, and she’s all about a hundred mile wide smile and a newspaper forehead, all sound and all fury, and behind her crouches this chick who cries like a skunk, but anyway chloe comes up to the stoop where dr. bluegrass the painted ass sits shallowly; he’s petting this chicken and chloe takes off her eyes and earrings and tucks them into a king size bed and then dr. bluegrass starts to speak and he’s got this slow stammer that hypnotizes zebras and he says “you ain’t no shaman and just because you’ve read swann’s way don’t make you brilliant and no one cares that your great grandfather voted for eugene debs because nobody remembers him anyway and another thing, you’re not lulu, so don’t wear your hair like that and fuck general pershing and macarthur and bismark and napoleon and rommell and valens and alexander and all the rest of them, and i’ve had it with bette davis movies and i’m sick of pretending that anything at all is worth my time and classical music don’t mean shit and if you’re white, you ain’t got the blues”…now chloe’s very embarrassed and her face is all red and her skin feels like it’s on fire / sometime later and this is after all the rats had gone home, turned off their hats, and changed their chords, i slipped out of my latin exam and headed for chloe’s and lost my way and ended up at the cinema and watched laura for the twenty second time and when dana andrews told gene tierney he was taking her in and gene had that look on her face, i passed out, and i was down on the floor and i heard michael curtiz screaming some mutilated english and it sounded like something you might hear on a school playground and while cliffton web was trying to kill laura and dana andrews was rushing in to save the say, i turned over so as not to choke to death on a piece of popcorn.
Joshua Martin is a Philadelphia based writer and filmmaker dedicated to absurdity and radicalization. His films can be found at www.vimeo.com/nanakproductions