We’re making movies that no one will see,
about things that mean the world to us,
at a certain moment in time and space,
but that mean less than a rat’s *** to anyone outside our bodies.

We never regret the echo in the large hall,
nor the words that OUR scarlett and OUR rhett say to each other
during the 126 minutes long director’s cut –
their tears are ours,
their love,
despair and
hunger for life
will be included in next month’s newsletter.

We’re making movies about those parts of our lives
that weren’t played out so well.
It’s our way of saying “sorry” or “thank you”.

We’re making movies that some don’t even call “movies” –
intimate quantum leaps, inner fights between our bodies and minds.
It hurts us, yeah. We’re not (all) made of stone.
We, sometimes, get frustrated and don’t even know exactly why.

We wake up in the middle of the night,
running the entire dialogue list in our head,
sleepwalking through the entire movie,
screaming at our non-suspecting sleeping significant other to be quiet and to get out of the frame,
“cause we’re ******* making a ******* movie here and every ******* second matters”.

We’re making (silent) movies because
we’re tired of all this noise,
because
that’s the only way we can have some “Aaaaaction” in our lives
and some frames to be proud of.

We’re not making movies to prove that the world is wrong
nor that we possess the ultimate truth.
No.
We’re not making movies to prove that the world is beautiful
and that we know nothing and that that nothingness should tickle your funny filmic bone.
No.

We’re making movies that make the entire world think that there’s something wrong with us,
that we can’t relate to our surroundings in a healthy and normal way.

We’re making movies so WE can experience, in the most familiar way,
the new wave long shot convention that YOU all hate
and diss in the digital environment,
as if your lives were made out of fast cut blockbuster shots
and not lonely, long walks through a dull park. Good for you, Max!

We’re making movies because
we don’t wanna have to explain ourselves,
like I’m doing right now.

Reality sometimes needs its own subtitle and.. ****! You know what?
The truth is that we’re not making movies.  
We’re making moves.

The Dark mist, it beckons,
It curls its manicured tip.
I twist, no, I resist,
Pleas die softly on my lip.

I conjure my life's images,
Of decent well adjusted folks.
Crumpets, giggles and tea bags.
Pinks and yellows that it evokes.

But fragile as an egg shell,
The cracks they show some more.
Lust and desire bubble forth,
Crimson lies sprawled upon the floor.

I'm told that I'm the Good Girl
Of frocks, and poise, and grace.
Yet the cracks they draw me in,
Fingers touch velvet and lace.

The Good Girl she suffocates,
In deaf silence she screams.
Awake she hides the gaping cracks,
Plays freely in her dreams.

So, Good courtesies in the light,
Smiling pleasantries at the fore.
But with heads turned I come to life,
Filled by the Dark I fight no more.

Two lives I live in parallel,
Soft moan sneaks past my lip
I am the dark, I am home,
I curl my manicured tip....

There is a luxurious lair of lies
Lovingly tended and layered with blanket truths;
A soft-bedding of sumptuous sycophancy
Tucked in too neatly with a pat on the bottom
delivered by hand.

Delusion drips from wet lips and silken tongues and
Lips smack with self-satisfaction and serial smugness.
Syrupy sentiments mist the eyes and blur the vision.
Charity is cold and cynical here with oily patronage to grease the wheels.
Fresh facts freeze outside the glowing house of harpy half - truths
as self- advancement holds the floor.
You need to wear a cloak to enter and hold it tight against you
You need to study the players
You need to act.

We do not have yesterday
That time has flown quickly by
A random series of moments
Gone in the blink of an eye

Such a pretty collection
Of memories to recall
Captured in dusty images
Hung the length of the hall

Every one is slowly fading
Was that shirt red or blue
Life quietly seeping away
With their diminishing hue

We do not have tomorrow
That is not how this world works
The future is a distant land
Where only the unknown lurks

Nothing but an empty canvas
Waiting without a frame
We paint it with expectation
In some kind of guessing game

There is no map to guide you
To show you the easy way
Just some unspoken promise
We have forgotten to say

We know all we have is now
This time is ours to own
One brief second to make a mark
One brief second then it's gone

Let our hearts beat together
In rhythm with earth and sky
Squeezing the most from today
No regrets we wave it goodbye

Nothing matters but this time
Enjoying the present with you
Until the sun splits the dark
And the world wakens anew

.

It has been found that given enough time
failure will find this destined loser
lurking in gallery tints
and water color fault lines

semi gloss replaced by flat

Painting abstract nothings
on a canvas made of words
Broken brushes stain the existing
balance with a voice that collects the remnants

speaking tarnished silver when silence should be golden

Pop art wastelands of dotted balloons
float above the ground where his face falls,
shamed and hidden, in plain sight
with eyes holding quarters of bygone years

melting clocks keep time with his idiocy

Impressionists laugh at his existence
in muted tone chuckles and turpentine snickers
Stretched on easels of dislodged glances
with splattered smocks tied in double knots

one size fits all

This palette of mixed memories
resting on mainstream notions, waits
for the end is sure to come
finding him alone with an empty imagination

and nothing but drop cloth dreams