The perpetrators of the crime do indeed dine and all by themselves
The
Story
Of
Television. Hidden peripheral ammunition.

And something that looks quite like a beautiful movie firing inside of our idlewild minds.

Pioneer knife-edge,
savoured and sacrilege – a bland brand new medium pressed gently against
bland brand new equipment

Mgm Grand – hell on hotness of wheeled portrayal,
and these exploding barbarians are standing right by these wound-up and desirably, constantly wired gates
Dismissed in the meeting inside
of the knuckle-busting, -dusting basements of our bloodied brains

Columbia would not do it ever,
would never ever fucking adhere with this twisted innermost drivel and stressed prologue which will forever ask itself and beg – just. one. lonesome. question.

D-i-g-r-e-s-s …
Independent cinema

A knifed movement, this is something fair egotistical,
at the same time hardly pompous

Visceral and primed evil – down upon scathing,
scratching knees

Rostropovich midst malnourished and motor-mouthed Bogdanovich
and Freakin’ Wildly Wilde

Soon
As an easy writer, Coppola’s stolen long-lost daughter,
improvises and speaks midst heavenly, heavily insinuating script
Jack Nicholson will and can absolutely let himself dance
by the make-up break
of the Joker smile portal for promiscuous portraiture – he is otherworldly at being announced it seems to be uttermost replicated by one such Heat of the Heath

A nearly-living-legend and he holds his scope
for the settled and searing – seething – joke within drug-addled script-ure

All
Of
Him
Yours. Ours. Everybody’s posthumous beast.

The movie brats if we will let it scintillate the size
of our deadening, deafening, ears again
Let us start right at the middle … wherein this story attempts to breathe

We have to have to have to fucking understand Cezanne’s basis-upon-a-booked instrumentation, sent-sational
Fixated by the dive
of the film-making drive
Producing something so very stinging aside senti-mentally significant,
please r-e-l-e-a-s-e the get-out-applause in all of us

Cut it by the bleeding edges of intrepid reasoning,
and simply, deliciously, damnright deliriously treat us to individual vision,
be your own author of high-standing promiscuity in a way

One such way, the blind-minded taxi driver’s pay
for our brand bland new experiences to do something differential to the rest
Manhattan tattoo brand bland new buildings emblazoned upon

My impassioned chest
The part where the heart makes sellout sense of its strenuous self

Billy Brydon says it so fucking wildly and all of his own coordinated and poker-nosed face
for undeniable violence smarted and smacked – smacking – within roundabout sky-wise, – wide, aside seriously spirited eyes above the Eagle’s Shit-Creak mountainside

We are all at our best when the rest of us
are sleeping with pillows near our bargaining teeth
Make it for no money and shut the fuck up … nothing else for it, we’ve been breaking bad again …

Delivering what she wants, p-l-e-a-s-e …
figure us all the fucking way outside of our heads

Family issues and friends,
all of it sleeps mysteriously within a sneakingly, insipidly suggested whiskey sneeze – when that bare-naked breeze begins
to bolster our juvenile brains again

This
Is
But
A Fucking
Pen.

Tabloid at being disguised
in red wine
per shot-glass admittance
Hong Kong sounds so fucking familiar it gives me monumental c-h-i-l-l-s

Are they really all that Lost in Translation?

Upside-down inside-out imbeciles sitting sullen and whip-smart
and detrimentally wound-up and worn within
their very own bland brand new buildings … of innermost portrayal

This. Is. That. Distanced. Vision. Sleeping. Dormant. Within. All. Of. Us.
It fucking tried for breathing – motherfucking b-l-e-e-d-i-n-g

Poised at being a solidified piece and a part of my play-, prey-pretend reasoning
The Beast sees one such singularly spectacular way
To say what she/he/we/they tend to do so as to play the game and endlessly sway …