Inspired by scenes from the film “Lion”
you’re standing in a weathered ravine,
surrounded by hundreds of yellow butterflies
fluttering their delicate wings in a roasting heat
brought on from an Indian summer. you spin
round and round and around in circles
with outstretched hands reaching out
with your fingertips to touch beauty eternal.
your brother Guddu calls out your name,
“Saroo!” into the labyrinth of butterflies
and it seems frivolous to depart back into the city,
where you will sleep on a corrugated bench
for hours, before you open your eyes and look
around only to realize your brother is never
coming back to buy you Jalebi treats.
(the train station is restless in its cuteness—
it was formed out of your jaw.)
you’re running back and forth along the floor
of the train car, for the doors have closed shut
and you are yearning for your mother’s warmth,
and hungry for whole loaves of bread.
Guddu looks and looks and looks and looks,
searching the city while carrying a fat wad
of money in his pants pocket. he is inconsolable
and sorry. he will die harboring this pain, grief,
and guilt in his gut that will stay
with him like flowers and an expensive suit
in a coffin. you hungrily chew into leftover
porridge staining a Tupperware container
found in an alleyway. the street kids size you
up, as though you’re a brand new action figure
sitting on the top shelf of a toy store. for you,
the idea of finding your village, consumes you
night after night. wandering, you like to whisper:
a daydream is a daydream is a daydream
is a daydream. also: a true dream in your head
is lead weight stored in your real heart beating
for all these tiresome years. we shout to you,
that you’re a legend, a treasure chest excavated
from beneath layers of tightly-packed sand.
your birthmark stamped on the end of your elbow
brightens when the moon reveals her majestic face.
i nudge them in their sides—as promised—that you’re
my longing. a chair to slouch in, that tips forward
to prevent you from falling deeper and deeper
into the dream. life slaps you over and over
each new night like a fox trotting in a meadow
strewn with bones of lion cubs. as the promise
wanes the lies grow stronger and clearer. your soul
of sheetrock gets tougher to cleave apart. your feet
know that a valley has no ending and a computer
—a pair of eyes. you carry me back to the creek
where the stream once drowned my youngest cousin
and Vishnu, embarrassed with the offering,
instructed me to spread flour over the roofs
of each townhouse. its stone compass burgeoned
by the light in the ocean to the length of a horse’s leg.
i will always say there’s no difference between
an old man’s smile and a young girl’s punch.
you will always say there’s no difference
between fable and perception: Murakami,
Morrison, Melville. that stone compass
is a springboard, where monsoons graze lips
in front of baby foxes. young girls shadowbox
in valleys across India. old men drum their palms
against the concrete, the vibrations pulsing
through your chest with the sounds
your ancestors once called their home.
Hold me tight and let it blast
- the horror movie of your past.
But I hope you understand
that I will scream and squeeze your hand,
I’ll be afraid to sleep alone
and need your voice over the phone.
And I will surely be afraid
to see that ghost under my bed.
So better let me shut my eyes
and please don’t tell me what I’ve missed.
Here’s to a not-so-movie life
Where everything seems to take a bite
Here’s to a not-so-movie life
Where there seems to be no light
Oh, here’s to a not-so-movie life
Where, sometimes, you want to die
Just to get away from this life
i want to make
a movie out of your
skin, the way you
move like ivy vines,
to your ode-begging
if i could,
i'd enter us
into a film festival
we could be a sundance
winner, a student
i bet you it would
enter a blank screen,
fade into a shot of you skin,
pan out to show your face, or
you are beautiful for
a split second,
until my voice cracks the
i tell you that we could be
no one, and nothing.
and you ask me.
so we make the movie anyways.
Very seldom do things happen instantly,
But we were an exception.
A firework of heart-burn and sparks.
Exploding fast, happening all at once.
We left nothing to chance,
and instead found a pure, thrilling, bliss.
Exhilaration without hesitation.
A leap into nothingness without fear.
And we ended just as quickly as we started.
We didn’t fade to black like rolling credits.
Because our love wasn’t a movie.
It didn't have time to development into a meaningful plot.
We were there, and then we weren’t.
After Danez Smith's Dinosaurs in the Hood
Let's make a movie called Lil Peep In Heaven
Transpotting meets 8 Mile meets six xanax bars
There should be a scene where Lil Peep climbs up a few flights of Stairs and makes it to the pearly gates, because there has to be pearly Gates
Don't let Bella Thorne star in this.
In her version she tongue-kisses Peep,
Chews scenery in platform boots and bright pink
Ripped jeans. Fuck that, Peep has a tattoo removed
By a saint, his laser is proof of all that is good
I want a scene where Peep throws his pill bottles
At Ganesha, a scene where Allah tells Peep he'll
Rot in his grave forever if he doesn't stop
His antics. Don't let GothBoiClique hold a
Funeral for Gustav. I don't want any of that
Sentimental shit about love and how life is too
Short. This movie is about a man/boytoy/ugly and dying thing,
Restarting his life with all the real-ass gods and patron saints and
Of every religion and every afterlife
I don't want some funny, dreadhead living in LA with a tattooed stick And poke commanding presence. This is not a vehicle for someone to Play Peep, this is a vehicle for Peep to play himself.]
I want his bitches, white or not, praying. I want them far from their Knees.
I want Lil Peep to ride in a Benz truck down from the clouds, Screaming with spittle flying from his mouth the entire time.
I want Layla to post another video of Gustav slapping pans together Like a child. And I want Peep to see it all.
But this can't be a death movie. This can't be a death movie. This Movie can't be dismissed because it's too dark, or that a dead man is Playing the leading role. This movie can't be about crying, or cause people to cry. This movie can't be about a long history of emo coming To an end. This movie can't be about dying.
No one can say Peep is a pill-popping asshole who deserved his death Who wouldn't say it to his cadaver. No big pharmacy jokes in this movie. No bar, capsules or gels in the heroes, and Lil Peep never dies & Lil Peep never dies & Lil Peep never dies. Besides, the only reason I want to make this movie is for the first scene anyway; Lil Peep climbing up the cloudy stairs, his eyes dilated & empty
the heaven before him filled with congratulations