After the David Lynch Festival (2000)
I hang with Death I sleep
and dream of suburban
lush scenes where I wear
black in Technicolor. You
look extra weird today,
pull off the lost highway
and take a picture of my canary
as the dwarves in the radiator
sing some song backwards unless
I step in the magic vomit
which transmogrifies my shoes
into pet logs but I am
leaving Big Tuna I am
not an animal I am
a giant sand worm I fear
or else that Eraserhead brat
who cries each time I try
to close the bedroom door.
You stay alive, baby. Do it for Van Gogh.
[Image seen on ScreenSelect]
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