It's been launched! The New Chapbook from The Private Press, We don't Stop Here, Poems inspired by David Lynch's Mulholland Drive
With poems by me, Juliet Cook, Karen Head, Esther Johnson, Collin Kelley and Daniel Lloyd. A fine bunch of filmic poets.
The next book The Lynch mob are doing is called 'I can't figure out if you're a detective or a pervert.' Poems inspired by Blue Velvet, It's been awhile since I have seen that movie but I intend on soaking in it like a milk bath. Submissions are open till the end of the year.
No hay banda. There is no band.
1. It all starts with heavy breathing, that’s how it always starts.
Expensive cars snake through quiet streets.
A violin sighs.
With her head full of blood and her handbag full of clues she slides through the
bushes and sleeps under a pot plant.
2. The man behind the wall is waiting for him.
He makes angels feel guilty.
His eyes are hot sulphur.
The carpet in the room is too still.
3. Sunshine arrives;
she’s a blonde.
Rita is in the shower,
Hayworth is on the wall.
Betty is as sweet as a peach.
4. Black slides out of his mouth.
Espresso.
5. Somethin’ bit me bad!
One suicide, two murders, a vacuum cleaner with a bullet hole and way too much DNA.
Rita opens her purse; she can count out her real name in hundred dollar bills.
6. He swings into Mulholland drive, his wife is covered in ripples but the pool is as still as a skull.
Her jewellery turns strawberry milk pink.
7. The cowboy wants to see you.
There’s someone in trouble but it’s not you, Betty.
The ranch lights up like an electric toothache.
8. The audition.
There was so much breath in the room it would relax an asthmatic.
Betty melted off the wallpaper with her jawline. Action.
9. I guess I’m not Diane Selwyn.
It smells bad in Apartment 17.
By the way, Rita, you don’t have to sleep on the couch.
Four breasts, two women, one kiss.
This is the girl, this is the girl I want.
10. Night winds blow the lovers and they land in red velvet. Everything is a
recording. A silver tear glistens like wet asphalt. Llorando por tu amor.
11. Betty slides her fingers down her pants,
the room falls in and out of focus, she tastes salt in her orgasm.
The sounds of her sins crash around her like falling pianos.
The pianos are only good for ash.
Her breasts are still perfect but her lips are nastier.
Poison love games swill
then the pool is still again.
In every universe, parallel or otherwise, the blue key unlocks death.
The man behind the wall at Winkie’s Diner knew all along.
12. Silencio.