Matthew Walsh

Disaster Artist (2015)

Oh, he runs down the street in a passion, in fragrances
of the summer blockbuster season takes up his mind and nose,
he is in a state, a consort  of prominent art, former
and still using. Eat and pray all the subject matters, the whole
spectrum of human communications, he is high on
hills, he is a silhouette  in the swill of Hollywood noisiness.
He is resting because he kissed the hand of a somnambulist,
herbs and the color ochre diagnosed as a cure.  He has kittened
himself in the grass, under a porn of stars, it is so beautiful
and reckoning. Oh pray, oh love, he goes red and purple
in a haze of galactical speeches. Oh soliloquy, oh none
of substance,  he lies in the grass, is part moon, part
candy-assed. He could go blue in sayings, goes and Go-Go
dances through Literatures of other centuries. Your revelations
are this: that life is chilling that life is spilled on a hill
in Faulkner’s made up cities. Oh you, oh lover, insightful
sayer, you are a star in the grass. White as real milk
in the morning un certain regard on your face or faces ,
in the multitudes! There is a blip of the airport, the baggage
claim making your hands hurt, oh the burden of your possessions.

In France you are green in language, complicating
the extent  of a croissant’s elaborate construction at a café
where Baudelaire was once caught spitting.  The art
of baking is rising and you’re attracted to archipelago and lingo
of a Baudelaire canto. You can read then
you can write.  Twitter that you just have to
kiss what’s left of Godard, whisper that no one is tender.
Oh James, your breathless— there is so much James
Joyce on your breath. Your mind and nose at attention
because subject matter is power, you are on the wing
of a plane, soaring into JFK.  Is this a plot device? Is it
clever or pathological that no one eats or prays where you are
sleeping? In the late night rootlessness , the flip-floppy
complicated extent of knowing you too well, you move
from stars and Soaps,  the close-ups, the zoom-in
airports, rented cars,  your professions, and its grip, tilted
glasses, strolls and strolls from your mansion to the hotels,
Joyce on your lips. Jacuzzi buttons at your fingertips,
moonlight daylight in snippets. Flashlight of subject
matter, balls and dancehalls such a doggy  following
the fragrance of your non-associates, equity
and manners.  The mutual satisfaction of your regard
for natures. Wanna curl up? You want
the dew of the nighttime grasses.

Published in HOAX issue 5

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