pOp [cUlt]UrE

cinematic entrapment: I can’t
help seeing the movie
that
might’ve been.

the last thirty minutes of La La Land
the blueprint
for a devious Cheshire grin,
and I’m trying to reclaim the past
and turn it into a refurbished future.

“OK Computer,”
take me back to ‘97
when I was three years old
before the universe was an at-large abuser;
before paranoia was an everyday acquaintance, and only existed abstractly as a Johnny Greenwood solo.

android hand controlling science-fiction
pop-culture, and even if we polled Orwell and Bradbury and Huxley
I’ll take a rough guess, and predict they’d view our disposition
as vulgar.

I took you by the hand, and accidentally broke your heart—a peculiar form of cannibalism;
and you pressed my teeth to the pavement, and turned revenge into an art-form—a necessary kind of animalism.

survival of the fittest, and all that.

but for every grand-scale social pain
there’s an interior ache that mirrors it; and
I’ve swallowed twenty-two years of pride
to ask you to weather both storms with me.

more importantly, I found out I loved you a little too late,
and I like to think that’s a forgivable offense, even after everything we did to each other.

this separation makes me violently queasy, and
I know more than most that reconciliation
ain’t easy—but if you’ll permit a pretentious diatribe:

this third try could be postmodern cyanide, literary and cinematic formaldehyde, and this time I’ll preserve the celluloid even if it kills me.

I don’t believe in happy endings,
but I believe in presenting the intertextual truth of past poems,
and to quote the words of a slightly younger poet:

“…you’re the only piece
of realism
that has ever been better

than the illusion.”

Willie Watt
2.27.17

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