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Thinking about feeling about
When I was feeling being loved by her
Was some kind of spiral
Some kind of collaboration with her -

Like our times together were on film
And it was a Her-in-my-Head kind of time ,
All the memories and the moments
From a **** Bill pantomime.

It was like our living & loving forever
Was going to go just as planned
And we'd be Adam & Eve at the End of Days
As the last tree burned and we held hands -

Don't get me wrong we were no Bonnie & Clyde
Playing out the tragedy of the old Midwest,
In a lovers' rush to take one final ride
On our way to a certain romantic death.

Thinking about dreaming about
Being her dream of perfection
Was some kind of wish fulfillment
Like an immaculate Inception

As she made it all up and our screenplay unfolded -
Every day in every way I woke up in her story
Until the CGI FX in my head-space exploded
In 5 point surround sound and Technicolor glory -

It was Cinéma vérité, a Love Affair with twists.
It was endless sequels, Terminator and Matrix,
The Towering Inferno and us trapped in the lift -
Fade to a pile of melting yellow bricks...

The End.
warm gun:

Imagining Korine, bleed out in ‘Fight Harm’
imagining his shattered ankle drag across the city sidewalk

Dreaming of seeing Frusciante, live on stage
as he vanishes into his mind, trapped in the sound

Seeing all of Schwartzman’s movies & shows
Rushmore, Spun, Huckabees & more

with the mind of a rock, dish or mold
and with all of pure being  
i avoid a painful death, on the bathroom floor
losing blood in seconds
watching brown turn white

Listening to Labor Days for the 100th time
& all of Aesop’s other classics, Daylight, Rings & Dorks

Listening to alt-J’s - House Of The Rising Sun
as it reinvigorates my wanderlust
with it’s multicoloured soundscape

writing insecurities into black notebooks
crying with a red blanket around my neck
wondering where to put the shame
remembering i have a need to share

Fincher, Kaufman, Guadagnino, Dolan
all i can say is
thank God for cinema
don't know where this one came from, decided to just take a chance with it...
evita Mar 28
What, exactly, is the nature of your game?
Have you come to destroy me,
poison me with your lips painted faint rouge
wrap your hands around my neck while straddling me
point a gun to my chest after saying 'I love you'?

Are you a spy on a mission to ruin my life?
Dear, I'm convinced that the whole world
is conspiring against me.  
So get on with it; I offer you my naked self
backed into a corner.
"You're not cursed; you're loved by me!"
PHANTOM THREAD (2017, dir. Paul Thomas Anderson
Jade Mar 27
I had my first kiss at the cinema, the contour of our silhouettes illuminated by the glow of the rolling credits. He tasted like Altoids and cigarettes, an ambivalent concoction of ice and fire. At one point, I'd bitten him by accident. Whether this was a manifestation of inexperience or (seductively, with heat in her eyes) hunger,  I'm not sure. But, sitting there in the thrill of My Something New, I was certain of one thing: this was a red carpet moment, the stuff of silver screens and glimmering Hollywood starlets and rows of type writer ribbon waiting to be transposed into something theatrical.

After the film, we sat outside a cafe a block over, the fever of summer adhering to the back of our necks like (giggling) misplaced hickeys. Smoke corkscrewing from the end of his parliament, he told me how John F. Kennedy was addicted to opioids. I couldn't help but think back to earlier that afternoon when he first admitted to being a smoker. How he'd asked me, "Is this going to be a problem for you?" hesitation rising up his throat like bile.

I smiled because 'Everyone's got their poison," I replied.  

And poison? Well, there's something so strikingly poetic about it, don't you agree?


JFK must have been Marilyn Monroe's poison, I think.

"So," I offered, "What do you really think happened to Marilyn Monroe?"

"How do you mean?" he said between drags of his cigarette.

"I mean was it really an overdose or--"

"Was it an assassination?" he interjected.


Another drag of his cigarette.

"As they say, the simplest answer is often the correct one."

"Maybe. (beat.) But what makes for the better story?"

After two weeks of courtship, he took his leave. My mother's obvious, unwarranted disapproval was, perhaps, a source of anxiety for him. Me being freshly eighteen, he was also concerned about that (sarcastically) whoppin' three year age gap. (beat.) Not fully buying it, are ya?

Well, neither did I.

Here's my theory: his feelings (or lack thereof) were the reason he called it quits. And instead of being a man--instead of being honest, instead of owning up to the true nature of his intentions--he spun some relatively believable excuse. A coward's way of removing himself from a situation he doesn't want to be in. Surprisingly enough, I wasn't as disappointed as I would have anticipated, had I foreseen the end of our fleeting romance.

I was (beat.) fine.

It does make for a great story, after all. (wryly) But you knew that already.

Because for every Norma Jean, there's always a Marilyn Monroe.

Tell me then--who are you?


Girl curtsies, transitioning into a tableau of Marilyn Monroe's iconic pose wherein she attempts to hold down her dress as the air from a nearby subway grate threatens to expose her undergarments.

Lights fade out.

Don't be a stranger--check out my blog!

(P.S. Use a computer to ensure an optimal reading experience.)
AsJay Dec 2018
Laying still while trying to restrain
Myself from looking at the canvas
Feeling numb with a hint of pain
These expectations have me anxious

It’s quite difficult to comprehend
That it’s all coked up with stamina
Unsure what’s ‘round the bend
I’m enticed by a private cinema

Flashbacks of past mistakes
And the solutions that would’ve prevented
Remembering what if’s I had to partake
Completely forgetting about the present

Sensations of my levitation
Seemed like I entered heaven
Stretching the limit of my imagination
Like vulnerability when I was seven

Eyelids reduced to a muscle spasm
Visualizing situations in my mind
So much vibrant enthusiasm
That’s still so undefined

Showing me my current dilemmas
Overflowing with thoughts of Celeste
Everything so arched like an omega
All the feelings that should be addressed

Contemplating whether I should bother
While strolling down memory lane
This ceiling has got me in a slither
Can anyone else feel this migraine?

The sunrays come through my window
As the shadow begins to decline
Arriving back from the meadow
Ready for the next storyline
Welcome to Cinema!
Constructed in mid to late September, Cinema is about my everlasting battle with my mind at the late hours of night and my ceiling, which is described in the poem as a cinema [hence the tltie], there's also aspects of a crush that I had during this time that's mentioned in the poem as well.
The half of the poem was quite difficult to construct, but I'm happy with the outcome nevertheless.
What Do You Think?
Tell Me Your Thoughts Below!
Hope You Enjoyed This Poem!
Thanks! :)
JAC Jul 2018
Since we last were here
the chairs have greyed with age

they, like us, were once a gentle blue
now they lay aching in the pre-show

the walls quake with the noise of decades
and the air is stained with concession salt

like living memories that were never ours
dissolving in the flicker of the picture

we remember so many first dates
and missed childhood kisses

that we forget the film
is even playing.
I love constructing a nostalgia for something that never happened, it's exactly as I said: like I'm living a memory that isn't mine.
martha Apr 2018
“it is not your job to interpret tears.”

There are ones that seem to fix everything.
Ones that gently shift the quiet tightening of your stomach to your chest all the way up to the microscopic peaks of your eyelashes
So the tears that follow might dilute the smile splayed so comfortably across your eager lips.
You decipher your interpretation of the human psyche through a screen
and make sense of the way we work with a language consisting of the perfect combination of camera and conversation
And stories
Stories about people
Movies about stories about people
Because what could possibly be more captivating
More beautifully unattainable than capturing that amazingly horribly complicated and endless plethora of confusing entities we labelled “emotions" caught inside the specks of dust brought to life by the light of a projection beam

In smiles exchanged through eyelines coupled with passing glances
Things that we know but yet somehow choose to forget
Things we hold familiar yet still at a safe distance too close to call far
Things that define us under the word “human” in an improbable world where the only certainty is knowing that we will never fully understand the sheer tremendous mass of what it really means to be alive.
What it really means to hurt.
What it means to know that there is unimaginable pain hidden away in bastions of solitude we never have enough energy to track down
Or place paper flag pins on just to remember where they were last seen.

But in these moments of utterly unmitigated bewilderment as to what the **** is happening inside our heads,
There is that same recognisable sense of comfort we can find in a bed
shared with someone else whose story we haven’t yet read
Shadowed by waves of apprehension tangled with fear and sheer joy at being reminded of what it is like to feel the unabashed velocity of every single one of your heartbeats again
dulled only by the confines of your sacred home of flesh and bone.

We gather without question
in darkened rooms only lit momentarily with hushed flickers
and the soft kiss of a silent stream of light carrying the burden of a story on it’s back
We sit the same way in synchronised straightforward stares
because sometimes we find it impossible to turn and face what it is we are most afraid of knowing
So within 3 walls and a never-ending silver plane of infinite realities
Some communicate with hesitant hands
clumsily clashing amid every popcorn induced action
And lingering touches in places we know all too well but are terrified of letting the other into
Memorise the way it felt to have shoulders happily heavy with holding a head up high for 90 minutes
and the fading imprint of their fingers as they grazed the small space of your lower back while you both exited stage left
Eyes dizzy and dreamy with what they had just witnessed
Thoughts shared and thoughts kept secret
Locked away for safe keeping because there are some revelations that have to deepen before they can be divulged to the company still beside you
already wondering when the next time will be before the credits have even concluded
“We should do this again sometime.”

And sometimes it’s easier to watch other people doing what we don’t do best
To see carefully constructed characters holding broken mirrors to our shattered internal anatomies
To see them go through things we ache to be reminded of
Or things we could never have considered imagining for the sake of understanding
We will continue to watch these people succeed within limits we can only dream of
But with every scene we see ourselves in
With every subdued smile and uncontrolled laugh
will come more hope
With every subtle tear and inconspicuous frown
will come more wisdom
As we continue to teach ourselves with the help of those who have made it their vocation to teach life through a language of moving pictures
To show us how to dissect the pieces of our world we don’t know how to disassemble  

We will keep trying to make sense of where exactly it is we come in the grand scheme of the ever-changing eclectic cosmos

I start my search in a cinema.
dedicated to the movie 'Short Term 12', directed by Destin Cretton
E over c2 Mar 2018
i'll bring you to me like i need it
because i do
that need for your lips
that need to be lost with you
the intoxication they provide
like a solemn deed set aside, that sincerity still resides

by waist i pull
by lips i speak and you listen without words
cheek to cheek
none will fulfill
fulfill what you mean to me
what you do to me
getting lost in the darkness of a cinema seat yet remaining still
getting lost in bedroom sheets yet remaining still

the words i struggle to say, here they lay
the map, thrown away
i lose myself
but i want to
i need to
Jeff S Feb 2018
Wordsworth bubbled in my cellophanate bath water
yesterday, at the candled hour.

whilst horse tails whinnied from Joshua Bell—
Tchaikovsky in brood, 1878.

Oh, but if I had thought to Bogart the whole affair, well,
I'd be a modern Michelangelo, a downright da Vinci—

a Dostoyevsky before the dawn—

propped between the cold **** and the hot,
wet behind the ears.

Then I turn the note-the page-the scene:
Don't try this at home, they echo in the shackles of

celebrity. A drowning horse has sounded better
than their confession of our normality.
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