It scratches the skin on my face... my neck... the palm of my hand and the tips of my fingers. I love holding my hand around your head and resting my cheek against your ear and feeling the pinch; you never shave this time of year. The time when you're caught in your thoughts. Caught in your imagination... brainstorming every shot, playing with every spoken word, and framing and reframing shapes and colors and sounds and silences. Leg and chest. Arm and shoulder. Right there. That curve of the neck....down to the back... the chest. You love how my hair looks when its up. The pearl of my earring. The touch of my ear.
A mattebox around the eye of your mind and I'm in front of the lens whether I like it or not. The all seeing, all hearing lens.
What am I wearing now? In this minute, this moment? I wanna wear that dress with the lace and the seqince... It reflects in the light. The same light sparkling in my eyes. I've always been obsessed with eyelight and you know this. I know you know this.
Your hand is warm on my waist. Take off your Wayfarer glasses and look at me. Kiss my eyelashes with your fingertips not your lips dammit.
Is the moment before not sacred anymore? What happened to courting? What happened to feelings? Real feelings? It's all masked by adrenaline and your blood.
Grab me a goddam typewriter and let me spill my desparation for romance on the page. I hate you. I love you. I don't believe you. I don't even know you. Shoot me. Shoot me on 8 mm. Let the emulsion burn my cigarette. Let the smoke spiral in swirls from my pouty lips through the air. And be violent. I'm violent. Passion is violent. And violence is violet. Ultaviolet.
I see my father in your eyes. When you raise your voice and threaten with your hand. I think it's your skinny ties and silly 60s hair. And it's sexy.
I take off your tie and leave on your undershirt. It's ribbed. And I feel you breathing underneath. Grand deep desparate breaths.
Shut off the lights and smoke in bed.
I could fall asleep to that sound. The chk chk chk and clk clk clk of the roll of the camera. It's a fetish thing I suppose - chiseled in my dna. everything sexual starts young whether we recognize it or not. these ideas are innate. internal. birthed. as thick, as thin as blood.
Let it bleed.
Chk chk chk. Clk clk clk. you hear it. I hear it. Close your eyes now.
We'll drown it out with the sound of the scene... I've always been a screamer.
Lo
Friday, December 25, 2009
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment