7
Is any future possibly worth winning?
Prophecy projected on the coffeeshop wall.
In the beginning WHEN wicked bizness
comes chicken-egging/egg-chickening
from a stripped-down Los Angeles soundstage
of a stripped-down Los Angeles soundstage
reflecting horizonless barrenness.
We’re screwed to the script. Dropped directly
into this Brechtian cesspool
upon which is founded this dizzying
monstrosity of Brutalist hallways.
All you cannibalistic hipsters
follow the narrative, searching for carrion,
chew on the text, spit out analysis.
8
Analysis: We’re Shakespeare-adjacent
in our love of armored, irony clad,
karmic logic, trace materiality,
cold, yet quirky, queer musicality.
ENTER the burqa’d succubuses,
an androgynous Duncan, and a half-baked
Macduff like Daffy Duck strutting into
Lars von Trier’s Dogville; ENTER Banquo’s
ambitiously large bushy eyebrows; ENTER
a sad Macbeth like Bergman portraying
Jerry Lundegaard. Face in the foreground.
Background buried in fluffy white stuff,
surrounded by white space. And when I say
white space, I mean it in a racial sense.
