images (39)I. “Mata Hari”
Focus camera on my lustrous bare skin,
Don’t hesitate,
strip “Mata Hari,”
Make the end treacherous;
Could you, please be, fast?
I am cold. Playing dead in a minimal Amazonian suit
for hours!
Finish the last scene! Cut it now, that’s it!
Don’t wait, decide on this close-up;
You’ll see, this is a moment when everybody cries and I die.
Let them all see run on bullets turnover in Dmitri Shostakovich “Waltz no 2”;
an ideal body collapse, last blow on the knees,
then shot in the head;
Skip the corps
and blend us in a shot where we dance
sinking with a kiss in a closet of memories;
Again? You want me to wide open eyes
and keep it with no movement?
I’ve done it for more than thirty eight times
After so many tries, wonder, “Am I still alive?”
Damn’ it shot that final scene and let me go
So I can step into your next obsessive noir film,
And “surprise, surprise” I’ll take on the next offer
And fit the shoes of another femme-fatal–
I’ll take over a role of a departing movie-star,
Who can’t keep up with your aesthetic boredom;
Listen carefully, listen to me
II. “Let me Try the Baroness!”
I’ll be brave enough to inseminate the evil Baroness’s spirit—
Know it all;
downloadA woman’s fleshing mind that skins
With the butter knife and “Moonlight sonata” cut open arteries
Bleeding to the end men’s hearts,
while she always hides behind their suicide letters;
her invisible revenge gazes into a deep confusion
with prolonged check-mate despair giving nobody a solution
where every step of her “Baroness” title forgery
creates more rivals that anyone can take
justified by her lost and broken secret past
a well-rehearsed narrative rising from the self-imposed storm dust;
images (31)You know that I know,
how to play that uncontrolled revenge;
And paste together all of your make-belief frames
To lead to an unwarranted tragedy
With the pathetic end over spilled bloody moon
— a passionate murder
That only rhymes with madness
Breed in silence drifted sadness.
Oh, you, who holds me on the strings of a success
Let me try the Baroness,
then I can play any tragic end,
images (34)Including the next offered shocking role
Ticking clock and A Night Porter;
I’ll eat glass pieces soaked in your blood
And reach for last calories from the broken marmalade jar
That leads everybody too far
To the end where we’ll, love of my life, both die netted in the “Godfather’s Waltz”…

III. Unctuous Liquorish Dreams at the “Quick Trip”

I have all of these movie cuts in my mind,
you know me, drifting away all the time;
Instead to play a femme-fatal, I drag days in Jarmusch’s “road movie”
At the “Quick Trip” while being on your side,
But honey,
the “Quick Trip” will not make for my actress career the final cut!
Your unavoidable bankruptcy
Now not even playing in the New Wave,
but the last role rated R, in a movie without a star
in some unknown, unlisted film alike old Noir;
Don’t think I could work any longer at this gas station
acting as a pale reflection
of all of my dreams and expectations
“I do” and “I did” all promises and vows
Now you ask for my day-dream and I have to surrender
To the jaws of mise-en-scene with a meaningless reality!
I can’t take this loss… Can’t eat crap bigger than me!
Not ready to serve passing-by neorealist acting as “customers”
Ordinary people, with no smile, sweaty, smelly, tired, dried
I will not put up with trivia conversion
this is a serious misconception!
I was born to be a movie star,
Look at me, damn it!
Skinny, an epitome of every suburbia perfection,
Cherry lips desirable with symmetry of white teeth between crushing smiles,
Even my selfie looks better than half dozen of all glorified stars,
There is no love ghost which could freshened tonight’s slow smoked Earthly sky
That I inhale;
See this crap; this is what I do in this movie-bizarre;
making pizzas, hot-dogs, and grilled brats;
Why did you lose that job? How could you fall so low?
A “Quick Trip” gas station?
I lost my dream-house
In this road-movie I can’t even be any longer a loving mother
Now our marriage is burnt in tension of the “Gramophone Waltz”
The whole life is is raging in repressed anger,
Reverse it; I can at least still be your exotic “lap” dancer…
… “Focus camera on my lustrous bare skin,
Don’t hesitate,
strip “Mata Hari,”
Make the end treacherous;
Could you, please be, fast?
I am cold. Playing dead in a minimal Amazonian suit
for hours!
Finish the last scene! Cut it now, that’s it!
Don’t wait, decide on this close-up;
You’ll see, this is a moment when everybody cries and I die.”

Pin It on Pinterest

Share This