They say they´re making the last film,
It´s called the Dream of the West.
Get in, Tovarich, we are crying to Midnights,
On magenta highways for the synapses,
Cardboard palm trees are erecting,
Locations are well selected,
Skin pores flare and smell like popcorn,
Close your eyes before the snap.
The Dream Machine welcomes you,
Raise your order card for service,
Elderflower liquor Prosecco spritz
Can now refract the New Mexico sun
To a perfect sapphire pool.
Cast the faceless people in your memories
As one-time extras, indentured servitude
To shackle the phantoms of your subconscious,
The desert road and cacti generated
By the algorithm of constellations.
This Barbie dances to embody Krishna,
Illusion of choice, world-destroying time,
Her many limbs tearing the ozone layer.
Oppenheimer stares at his neon closet,
Warmonger, lover, scientist -who knows?
Today, he might just be Kenough.
Brian is a local poet in the Dallas Metroplex. He enjoys open mics and meeting other writers. By day he works as a Medical Interpreter. He is happy to have been lucky to be published here and there in VoiceMail Poems and Thimble Magazine. He used to contribute to the now extinct Vaporwave magazine, Private Suite.