Be My Lover

Lla da di

[Redacted]

I once was trapped within the prison of my own garden.

Something inside me yelped for this faraway spirt guide to shut up—but I was all the more ready to fry up the remainder of my tempeh, and continue to wallow in my loveless grief , wondering what would become of this undone monster—the disaster that was my own impossible maze of creation, however with gratitude, that I was standing in an immaculately clean kitchen, with a table full of books, and soup to cook. Gratitude that I was alone, and for the most part, alive and well.

Gratitude that I lived in one of the greatest cities on earth—maybe even the greatest—

But I didn't know yet.

I had never been to Tokyo;

I would be missing the Olympics in Paris;

Rome was still waiting at the other side of a giant puddle I was less fond of than its opposite;

Amsterdam l was some fabled tale I had only dreamed of—

And London begged to be brought to life in my own eyes, were I lucky enough to escape the arrested development of the burdens of my Brooklyn [redacted].

I might be getting to ‘famous' to tell people where I live.

[Unfamous.]

Lol is this the one with the guy going around knocking on doors

To see if people recognize him?

Yeah.

lol. It's a comedy, right?

Dark comedy.

(A black comedy.)

Nah, but you can't call it that,

Cause they'll think it has something to do with colored people, and they won't watch it.

That's literally the name of the genre.

My point stands.

{Enter The Multiverse}

—you'd be suprised how much more blatently racist people get from behind a screen or studying demographics and viewer preferences.

If you don't love me;

You like me

You watched me light my cigarette just the right way,

And liked it,

And that night,

I died in your arms,

Crying for myself—.

Lying to my wife,

As if next time, I might be better.

We all deserve second chances.

Good grief.

Who is this guy?

Some sad sap.

Sad is right.

Sap is more accurate.

I stroke your hair

With your head in my lap,

As though you belong to me;

I see the crease in your eyes as smiles

And your lips as petals

To a flower so sweet,

I can't wait to eat you,

Like honeysuckle on the tip

If a hot wet tongue,

Hungry for the berry it would become,

But eager to know the sweetness of just the flower,

Sure to bloom with the coming of seasons,

Just as sure to rise as the moon would,

Whether full or new;

In a sky fyull of stars,

All I see is you—

In a body of scars,

I am your demise,

Your pride forever altered by divine truth,

My light hides In darkness,

Your will to the light,

Like a moth to the flame,

Which I honor

And crumble over,

As she towers over us,

Seeking and ready to destroy

All flame to dust;

The ash is out

The tray on the table

I roll another

To smoke,

The guilt and shame of betrayal,

Distrust,

Unarmored, I mock my own judgement

A movement,

The box over a diamond

A row full of nothing but

Hawks, circling over.

Do you not know?

My favorite skit has a story;

Sara without an H was a real person.

Patrick was Fallon,

Now Fallon is Patrick—

I'm thouroughly confused;

The Allegories Continue.

Book II

GODDAMMIT:

See.

I TOLD YOU.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHH.

it's on.

ITS

GONNA GET

RAW.

Ah shit.

Here we go.

At this point, I thoroughly need my shit kicked in.

Do you ever feel like—

Uh huh.

You could just use a—

—a knife in the back?

Like, a swift kick to the face.

Sometimes.

Karate style neck chop.

Sounds nice.

Really swift, like—

Knee to the groin?

Like a good hook t o t h e j a w

Yeah.

I'm actually aroused.

{Enter The Multiverse}

How about that .

V.O

JOHN SLATTERY

I had learned certain things about myselr, such as that lighting a candle and lounging to soak silently in the tub for any number of hours might allow my subconscious tone dictate on behalf of John Slattery, affectionately sometimes referred to as J.Slatts, besides the slew of characters I had once in some black hole managed to have write for him—the actor, or the part of my deep subconscious manifesting as such.

I wasn't even in the slightest bit curious as to why, and attributed it mostly to my my affinity for traditional fraternal organizations, a deep understanding of the unspoken internal hierarchies of the entertainment business, and the occasional silver fox.

This is getting good.

J. SLATTS

V.O. (CONT'D)

Still, my familiarity with the occult had somehow shifted my own perception to that of apathetic acknowledgement that I was easily dismissable as unremarkable, however, still somewhat convient, isolated, and easily discardable— I could easily be disposed of, and my work passed on to someone more easily manageable—ie, without the will to be controlled, and therefore be bonded.

Hypnotist bastards.

Whatever your will, is my purpose.

What are you?

Whatever you want.

What!

Which one did you ask for?

What kind of shit is this.

The kind of shit you could only wish you even dreamed of.

So you're like some kind of genie.

Better than that.

I'm going to spend my summer gnawing away at your insides.

Aw, man.

What the fuck did I write.

My children are clawing at the door hoping for a peak of my newest invention.

Mortal man.

If only they knew with any sense at all beyond that, they could be so much more.

Disastrous creatures.

I was disastrous once, too.

And I, mortal.

The pursuit of actual suicide.

Would I see my son again?

Would the walls close in as I start to bleed?

Would I whisper to myself a song, to induce the calm,

As I wondered what had gone so wrong,

For so long

That I would become

Gone

She's a Hollywood grown superstar

Born of obsessions,

Now to let them all to lesson

One becomes another

A mirror for a mother;

Hello Billie.

Awards to walk on water—

Eyes of oceans

Worlds apart

The Hollywood sign under this foot;

Rockefeller Plaza, the other—

Strings to pull the cups

To kill the clause

The want of Oz

Beyond the contracts and the mantras,

Something comes

You want it?

Blow up dolls and fountains,

Ant farms and rock collections

Still life, stillborn

Still Joan of Ark

In Central Park,

Single file, Noah—

There's no boat at all for all of us

You wreak of cyanide.

I'm so glad you know what that smells like.

I'm flaccid.

Is that a joke?

Something tells me I've kept this hallmark card

For far too long.

Something tells me I would do much better

As a blonde

And ten years younger;

Either that

Or ten feet under

Tempting, huh boss?

Somebody ought to call the chupacabra

I'm going all for broke inside this Honda;

Why, mom, let it drag on like this?

Worcestershire sauce, Gosh,

Shucks—

You're the worst, Corn.

On the cob; then?

Call the cops!

Call

Oprah.

Call—

Call Cosmo and Wanda.

BILLIE EILLISH is that it

Idk how to spell this kid's name, fuck it.

Is dressed in an oversized denim overall suit; her hair pulled into exaggerated and teased oversized pigtails— Her eyes seem larger than usual under the thick magnified lenses of the oversized frames she wears on her heavily painted blushed face, almost with the appearance of a clown, but more likened to a scary porcelain doll; her teeth are covered in braces, and the long faux eyelash extensions affixed to her face sparkle with a silver that matches the rhinestones that match her mechanized mouth, overall conveying a thoroughly weird, over-sexualized life-sized cabbage patch cross porcelain doll—the stuff of nightmares, to any right minded adult, but assuredly someone's fantasy, as the song portrays the journey of a lost girl—a fallen God once praised amongst the—

[The Festival Project ™]

What the fuck are you trying to write

Whatever the fuck I just saw

Can you not {That's So Raven} so hard

That's so Rave…(in)

#SPACERAVE

Cool.

EliteZ.

I would call it exquisite.

Whatever she's an alien princess dressed as a blow up doll calling out into the cosmos for the space Gods to come blow up^/destroy the already nearly destroyed man-world trash planet we're all on.

“We”?

Did I not just say men destroyed the planet earth?

Ahem.

Wait. How many of us here live on the planet Earth.

…

By show of hands.

…

..:

…

…3 of you.

Is that it?

Hello, sir.

Have you been drinking?

It's nice to see you—

Who am I, you ask?

The one you always call for.

Hello?

Can I get an answer?

Are you barely breathing?

Tell me something good

‘Who are you?'

All I wanted.

What a bargain

Shopping carts all full of bottles

Just to humble, of course

He does it himself

The shopping for the cubbards.

Melt.

Careful,

All you are is words

The tongue goes forwards,

After all

The rollercoaster plunges

And the ark

Of all the stories

Forms to one conglomerate

Atop the Oval Office

Get off of my cloud, you dumb fuck.

I can be arrogant

For the establishment

I can be all you want

(The one you call for)

So seductive

Just the art

Of burning tongues and calling numbers

Call to all you want

And I will come

The one you call for

Ah, yes.

I do not need a dog.

I'm procrastinating writing my album.

There's no sugar in this house.

I need a nap before the gym.

This is not a poem.

It's an entourage.

…entourage.

… Entourage.

…Entorage.

(In to rage)

| | Entorage.

| |

Entorage

| | Entorage.

|||

(Born to rage)

wtf is this.z

Like, idk yet.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

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