The Third Man Shadow and rubble is the ghost between street and running. Lily, you brown roped your hair for this one and the wheel skies up and down. Each repetition of the dream is shit when you take off your no play mask. An ideal death means pragmatic life, or something like tunnel, light, tunnel, light and the canted angle cartoons up children. The nap of your lower weave made left chase his hand, is cave, fast probing emergence. He only wanted it the way the other wants it; gun end he toilets up and out. The way leaves flutter interstice and fall and how you walk away as his smoke churls.
Asphalt Jungle No green grass, no tree, only black white prowl or above sinking, Lilith, in you reside an uncanny hump, scour the counter clean. The sprung he, projects you onto blank screen. Or cloistered, you fidget, ply for his wares, though he has the un-you in another crib. He, his, dream hims, woven you all in Each, want you in their own bungled stolen but once wounded, he dreams the pastoral then you unravel, a thread on the air. Lil (MM) you are what the image wants though Sprung still projects you onto teen dance. Helped him, all broken to the place of dream. Weave you end barren conceit of routine.
Chinatown Lil once heard a piece by Maya Angelou about an encounter with Billie Holliday while Maya lived in Los Angeles. Maya’s son Guy kept interrupting Ms. Holliday while she half sung half spoke ‘Strange Fruit’. When he said What’s a pastoral scene, Miss Holiday? She said, It means when the crackers are killing the niggers. It means when they take a little nigger like you and snatch off his nuts and shove them down his goddam throat. That’s what it means. That’s what they do. That’s a goddam pastoral scene. Why every time Lilith sees paintings by Thomas Kincade, she thinks right through her nose Now, that is uncanny
Eraser Head Lil, don’t Hank know the real rings him for you hall is port too or the lungs and weeds grow from chest tale takes you from home to the bed of your next friend though he still want to step in the puddle baby eat him god gears rock crag is dense but when cracks sends out sparks like dad laughs mom sucks at the neck then ear no job but a wet house a wet chicken a wet child Lil not native sink in milk each can not be you but they all try each in their way to dance on bugs near the lung door Lil he dream you in dream you then shut Fats down in the dirt of life work wife lurk for you the real rings him Lil Hank don’t know
Twin Peaks Lil Stringer, you death the town alive, like peeled logs sitting for coffee and pie, or shadow, light angles across the guilty dive, like quiet blinds built with one patched eye. Lily Strung, you weave Electra parts from whole. How you detect from static he can’t know. Not thrown rock or dream or hang from heel. Agamemnon is at the casino. Perhaps they complete you from collective strife. So say backmast tracks of you and midget wordsmith, but all their dream combined won’t bring you life, unless dreams are individual strings of myth. Eve or fall is twinning you everywhere. Why you will not marry the morning star.
Mulholland Drive Lily string up, Lily fly, Lily hang in the air over You nonce her journey from simulacrumb to larktype. Unless making your myth—occupation dream composer and a cry in silence, does not symbol up a smoking pipe. Why Lilith, did you weave her into an unknown cloth? It’s as if you burn as you dream you think you are the lamp the light behind the silhouette of the moth, when you have crocheted the self into unraveling avatar. But if desire is cause of an object—the full tapestry Cowboy wake up, hitman laughter, blue key opens doom. Is why she led you, by shortcut, her phantasy ascent and Lily Threadbare you can’t unknow your loom. In the end it’s the little things you must look out for. How you started, the world meant to give you pleasure.
Patrick S. Rogers is kind of a dick. He likes to think of himself as a social experimenter, which might be part of the problem. Patrick isn’t one to get to know, but one to consider. He likes to write poems about film; some of which have been published, but most have not. While listening to what he calls, “not gettin’ laid music,” and ruminating on one of his favorite quotes from Paul Valery, “perfume is what the flowers throw away,” one can begin to understand why he might be a foreigner even to himself.