"ok there's nothing like the feeling i'm feeling when we sink back thru the couch with our feet on the hassocks hooch and (just so happens to be) moulin rouge. like king kong, over the virtuous rainbow"
"and it is nice, you see, he he he," stirring the tea. his chin tilts upward so the smile looks taut on the cuteness of the curve.
i turned down the salsa music playing in the studio. it was satine's here i am section of the movie and i want to switch stations. a film noir in contrast to ridiculously blazing color. and it was obvious and sort of drag, still i liked the mint green glass of pearly absynthe in toulouse lautrecs grip. and the rooftop architecture, those peculiar ethereal spaces, the windmill circling in red lights.
one of the dancers, stepped out of henri's painting alive. her hair, with it's stubbled japanese fan of a bun, tied back, was the givaway, but she was a real noodge, always planting evil imagery in the minds of the unaware. trying so hard to make the lovers doubtful, or the boss suspicious, alas it did not work tra la. and in the end, someone has to die and it seems like the wrong person, but that's hollywood, ah i mean, life. about showing the way it is by way it isn't.
myself
and real, that
caring knot
but screw nihilist pain
it real, can shipload understanding, expatriate resay expatriate myself
and myself
hybridizing careens
trilled floorshow and reify
it everything
i heard, together
again
broke and pain can freshener
it that
it there
a blandisher caring
but again
i
