5.12 / December 2010

Nightmare Directed by Rainer Werner Fassbinder

They sang before bringing all the waste to shore. Perhaps I am a loony on the balcony, contain irresponsible trophies in my den. I will dance outside the lone barn with cherry soda, bust into the beaded door. Counting my steps is essential, they are quick. The pants fall out on the patio of regret, the all-time snarl of a man vacuuming the stable clean. I listened to the unemployed make shirtless mistakes in the strike, the warning of dawn the crumbling of dusk. Were we to settle the score the women would not cut hair here; the drapes open, the chin that crowds inward with a chew takes the neck back a street to the head and its inclination to advance. I came over with an airplane smirk for your pungent smudge of naysay. This is my giving a shit this is my mechanical flash. Do you understand the reason the boy made his girl an angel every Halloween? This was a cardigan love affair, many tensions in the reach come under the chill of the nape to find a mouth then the eyes wide, to chase the vineyard off its singular course. Let the chartered discourse of nuns in a high and unfortunate silo of solvency brick us red. This hat held a cross on the rung, a ribbon in the stroll. Sun kept nothing out. Breathe and go on.

Nightmare directed by Agnès Varda

In love, no you’re not. Coriander will crunch. The blend is that I want your Hume without Kant. I can do it, be a biscuit. I can do it, marvel the wick and sprig the force of many elemental shakes a blueberry with protein would make. Be okay for me cumin, touch the chicken I rigged, broach the broccoli in an off-putting cross-bar pat down. You are a good willow and I am home to take “what is away from home” away. Flowers every hour, dynamite relocations of the noir. Oh jester, pug me a nugget of bliss in the occidental trope. The lip follows my call to the dance and halls a pudgy hip into the kin. I recommend forfeiting spontaneity and handing on to the tradition a public fit within the factual. The deference is equitable. The parlance puddles my gal’s negligee and eyebrows mast the slip. Hey man, why are we big-brothering the slow-cooked meal, when is the pincher due in my salutation? I was in love. I was all the call from a subjective, object for the inwards. Constancy is monstrous, hell banks the scalp but I will straighten the game. This is versus us. Stop with spices. I drop from sky babe; people spread over from the cinched business of canvas, the poke of a brush then I shall burst with hatred for the touch. Mondrian kept the Dutch in him, made something reflect as if perfectly and the other time screamed. Yodel, I want your chair when you go down, troubling the anti-depressant swallow. Go fuck your nightingale niche call me an “obsessee” you understand oh so replete, the genital asphyxiation cavorting in the cortisone pub. Sentinels rupture the spud, grain an overload in our heavy hormonal lodge. I forgot Goya troubled a portrait into place, Debuffet making the ice scream under man all along. You had a hello on and I stayed behind now goodbye.

Nightmare directed by Ingmar Bergman

My story of religion, the sunken effort of getting through, the story a sparrow tows from stone, the undigested dunk of a leafless tree, the outside law of a mouth in a beard, the thorough crouch of faith in a deserted art, the beginning of indifference in an ended relationship, the forlorn horning of a stressed-out gaze, the separatist sprig of a long robe’s lounge, the saintly suture of hands clasped in prayer; then, let’s go at these presents, these daily images, with grace in a highrise. On my back you kept an eye on the off chance it closed quite high. What we understood was corn in rows and masks awaiting our rack, the vow of a castle and the sacrifices we held together in sand. Wind blows up the hill. I keep my water in my palms and sip.

Nightmare directed by Giuseppe de Santis

The paddy opened up and the restless weighted through. Sure enough, the nail in the toe the seed in the stem, all the anglers that chunked up the ravine, making in the shape of their swim. What cultivation do you speak of—vast plains, women’s hands and not the shoulders I won’t draw? The unchanging work of water banks at the frequency of the radio. Warm is the workplace we steed, all the factories where they put hours back and your name please; this was where I told you let’s hope nothing escapes. These raids, the part of me a field would disregard. This year brought food. The blue was safe and vibrant–the small thin man with a mustache made me a marketable station. Whistlers, the thief. My America is warbled in a marbled kiss; the ice is recognizable, the waiting of a memory is the making of many more. Trains these days taking sits in the rice fields, or the dancer who quits her skit to straw down a smoke-stance. Curly in my uncapped and a coward. Hotel language brags me up to last at mapping out the stage “a moment of space” an everything embrace keeping my kernels out the steam. In our village we do this every night. The gramophone returns as the magazine harbors the artillery. We labor into our bunker and flint with the business of taking care. You shouldn’t be singing outside my window.