|From left: Claire Forlani, Claire Danes, Tiff|
At least the words are not false, that from said teeth flow, from boxes heart-shaped shapelessness, bags tossed as rubbish into the Warsaw mud, flown, Angus, darlin' - rather, a punk-en down Dalle Betty Blue-blackend bird spazzing through anthropology classes as her lover pilfers thousand year-old psilocybe and amanita muscaria mushrooms from a mummified shaman's pockets. Each wodka shot or peanut butter-covered stem tracking each punch and drunken stumble dream pie like meth and coveralls to grinding mechanical factory sex atop crumbling swamp corpse; grinding academics in their dancing and beer spillage and moving far away from the needle tip distance twixt the ancient fungal shaman's last expression train down through more more the turn style jumped, coiffed, jumped back through and gay references hurtled like Jack Benny's Polish theater troupe bombed and built anew under which in the shelter Zulawski slept as a child.
With a little sex in it -- in this case too much
own, eru aasway to wit, ergo, in lieu
you outta brush up on your Greek, Janderson.
gloob gloob cheek cheek cheek remember that girl round the bend, up the creek to the unreal city, Warsaw, one day her address came up, to be or not to doobie do be do
carnage through traffic pylons and gritty cop gloves,
the sad clown whistle of electro-shock,
aging right there in the chair, frozen lips like embryos in the freezers of rich Parisian ladies with no time like the future, loss of production funds, Emmys, three year sobriety chips, and of course, love.
Homeland, Carrie, the river Catalano... and Tino, now visible, barely, up in the monitors. Frozen Embryos all thawed and playing for all ages so long as they're grown up past beanstalk heights. Carrie Matheson's madness retro-fitted to the micro movements of Saudi journalists, the seething hormonal guilt of traitors over tailors and Gettysburg's ghosts sluiced through the filters of swimming pools heated from nearby crematoriums.
Claire Forlani may not be really Scottish but it's about time we had more 'Red Flag' style nutcase women ruling in booze-shill hell rather than these khaki-wearing 'regular guys' who will never leave the safety of their heaven-lite Budweiser perches or hit their kids or blow up their garages but instead watch Up all Night but never stay it, instead get lassoed into family dynamics and beige color schemes and dear I think you've had enough but they'll never actually have it.
I vote for the natural hell habitat of stumbler psycho hotties storming through 4:20 AM clubs, ranting about some guy you've never met (I'm not going to admit I don't know who Angus is, not if it keeps her pouring) but clearly she fucked the guy who owns the place at one point and now owns it or thinks she does and anyway she's pouring you enough post-last call slugs of near-top-shelf from behind the bar that her anger and narcissistic indignation is seductive like a slightly less cold freight train down an ice cold mountain you've been climbing 'til yr fingers frozen bloody be and then down down down deep deep down
down rather than listen one more minute to the still preachy echo of last call wives and
moms and bosses and sanity hand
rails and Up All Night marathon in progress still, attended now by mothers in laws, and the law itself, folded in the couch cracks like mold in their menopausal minds.
Instead, all of that is shuckered loose from and you grab the last falling skittering perfume and real fur coat (faint scent of kitty litter and bile amidst the Chanel) and marble ice covered in melanin-melting thinner in older age hand of Forlani's Lady Macbeth-ish mad Scot,
slipping from yours soon enough, aye Angus,
if skin were mottled fur,
out along the slimy ocean cobblestone streets,
into more and more warming drinks,
floating you home on blackened bruise cushions (for the nonce mere tingles),
a vague memory of a cab driver shouting but no sound in the oceanic roar of your ears,
handing a crumpled twenty (cuz she liked round figures), a flag of surrender from weak wavy fingers, no receipt, and no bags except the Dewars promo swag,
soft applause dampening yr fall
into the comfortable curbside trash pile pillows.
The gentle muddy on-all-fours crumble,
the keyhole of yr deadbolt, bruised by step stumbles but not bloody
thence to in the warming carpet
die and dive and wake, reborn, ashen of complexion,
and the sun's already set on the.... day? night? Or is it dusk? That's the devil of it, Nat.
I mean not the devil, but Claire... my madwoman of the tarot.
She's gone and left only bruises and a hangover fit to darken half of Glasgow..
|Claire Forlani, Mallrats (1996)|
It's Sunday...already. Pink Edges along the skyline,
pink edges along the rooftops,
twice as sad either way, like eyeliner stains the streaky
soot of fingerprinted window glass,
adieu, she left her cell # on your dresser, your messages all texted threats and oaths,
each one expanding on the last since gone
and worse, Mystery Men, Magicians, and The Medallion
waking Tiffany (Jennifer Tilly) from her plastic frozen sleep.