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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?