Poem
for David Lynch's Hair
dashed
off while binge watching
the
first season of Twin Peaks
Harry,
I have no idea where this will lead us,
but
I have a definite feeling it will be a place
both
wonderful and strange.
Cascade
a waterfall by the Mill there on top of his and drawing the eye notes
plucked leading to red curtains that shiver light vomits into
darkened rooms filled with little coconuts like a wave no Lipstick
Smear or Mascara Rivulets undulating each strand Wisp Thick crowning
one-armed defining our wide open pupils knowing perfectly placed
Imagine
the conversations of his combs gritted through their teeth
Piled
as if worn by forces on the agate and sapphire of Missoula, Montana
sculpted by the wind and the rain into a shape that denies our
Physics made black like a strong cup of coffee a little present to
ourselves like Christmas.
His
brushes hold hostages to negotiate some sense of truce or gather
their loins in revenge.
Form
full Carnal execution Styled against rot and lurid and bestial and
our sex in a one-eyed jack in defiance reminding us that these things
Define and make deals with the Icelandic or fill the plates with
mounds of donuts at the crime scene no invitation to love.
Bottles
of shampoo conditioner products tossed about on the tile of
florescent lit bathroom floors are really full of Myna Bird blood.
Huddled
cold chattering in the shadow that it casts clinging to others who
will beat us with bats or hide drugs in our gas tanks we are its twin
peak though As the darkness is always darkest inside
Who
is your barber, wrapped up so in plastic, washed up on shore?
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