The scene opens mid-sentence—
blood already drying on the dialogue.
No establishing shot, no mercy,
just a cigarette burning itself to death
in an ashtray shaped like California.
He says he’s done.
Yeah—done like a revolver with one round left,
done like a jukebox that only plays heartbreak
and B-sides nobody remembers
until they’re bleeding out on tile floors.
“Quitting,” he says again,
like it’s a clean word,
like it doesn’t drag chains behind it—
film reels, severed timelines,
women with vengeance in their eyes
and men who talk too much before they die.
The camera circles him, slow—predatory.
You expect a twist.
There’s always a twist.
But nothing flips.
No trunk pops open.
No hero walks out of the fire.
Just silence—
long, uncomfortable,
the kind you don’t trust.
Because in his world,
nobody really quits.
They monologue.
They reload.
They come back wearing different suits
and call it something else.
So when he drops the word “quitting,”
it lands like a bad line reading—
too neat, too final.
And somewhere off-screen,
a record needle scratches,
waiting—
for him to change his mind.
Demagogue not pedagogue
Aghast & agog
Perfidious insidious fog
Reeks of the past
Slog through the smog
Musk seeks to flog
Earth & its serfs
Downed & drowned
In his dystopian bog
Even starry nights
Elon’s neon satellites
Seedier media perch
Utter nutter besmirch
Thriving in the gutter
Conniving depriving church
Vex "X" & Tech T-Rex hex
Or next bogus Rogan
Bogan slogans prevails
Alpha male tales derails
Sod the planet’s scars
Cruise trips to Mars
Odd bod driverless cars
Spawn a fake Tarantino
Remake.."Musk till Dawn"
Devil may care lair..
Loads of lies..skies chock a block
With spies...all eyes on the prize
Everyone Everything Everywhere dies
Let's not parley with gnarly snarly
Musk...takes the mickey & the bicky
In the dock for running amok
Time guys he did finally own up
To being as grown up..
As a Farley’s Rusk (a British biscuit/bicky for a wee kiddy)
Find xanthium' squeeze in a sigh
asking a righteous void, hear my entreat
hand to heart, in a beggar's sky
not just for myself,
not just for why...
Can a heart devoid of hope
seek to find salvation
from a Quentin Tarantino film
in a strange pulp voice
that sounded just like mine.
Your sin, my sins
vowed never relent..
nor let cementing cold take you
so don't despair..
Place two fingers, just beside your neck
feel it pulse?
it's you,
and you still care.
Search the world's underbelly
the meek and mild
little mouse infirm, the whooping crane strong, all us
no longer beguiled.
Roaming streets and back alleys
afraid to meet my neighbor's eye
I, the guilty
waiting a just reply.
It's a quarter past two,
last train leaves at three..
the sign at the platform's final end
stands glaring,
waiting a reprieve.
A proud primping Whooping crane calls out
'it's justice'..
All a lowly titmouse discerns,
'it's just us'.
Say
You know what they call a burger
in the future
What
I can't believe it's not a burger
Because it ain't got no meat or
cheese in it
It's a bun but that ain't bread as we
used to know it either
With some or other kind of meat
substitute as the burger
And the side's have gone as well
And don't even get me started on the fries
Just maybe that was what was actually
in the briefcase after all
Tarantino just didn't want to spoil the
surprise until his big reveal when he
gets to say , i told you so
And Vincent the hitman would Kill Bill
or even Jules for just 1 more
bite of a juicy burger as bloody in the
middle as Mr Pink himself
Because at that point nostalgia has
become the newest kind of pulp fiction
that takes us back to the future
Theatre
ancient, organic
previewing, staging, performing
Sophocles, Chekhov, Ray, Tarantino
filming, screening, releasing
modern, edited
Cinema.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Date: 22 / 10 / 2016
Western Movies
At the Chinese supermarket, they were selling cowboy revolvers
with holster very cheap they looked, and I tried one, but it was too light,
I have never held a revolver but thought they must have some weight
in the American city slums, black gangsters shoot not pointing but with
the hand held flat, and they tend not to hit anything but a wall this
his because they have seen this in a Tarantino movie.
In my childhood, we watched Hopalong Cassidy he when opening
a salon door chewed spearmint gum drugs was far from his mind.
There is an institutional bias against black people I think when police
the program is always showed someone black, and they get arrested for
the banalness of crimes, like having a bit of marijuana in their pockets.
But where poetry congregate the majorities are blacks this is not
because they want to be there but little has been done to get them out
of this mess, the slum and the gangs were they are, welcomed and can
For a short time drive around in an expensive stolen car and feel like
winners and throw money about, and not saving the loot. And out of
crime private corrections centres make money
It’s noisy in here
The engines don’t shut down till midnight
That’s when the sweating begins
The deep human subsystem checks in for the morning
Orange lights permeate the dust that rains down
And people move like ghosts in the fray
No one talks they just move in slow motion
Like a bad Tarantino film
It’s shift change in the data mines
The operation folks wait for the elevator up from hell
Chet Baker streams out bits and bytes of the blues from his trumpet
While the next shift downs their power drinks and coffee.
Drones and ants.
Moving from server to server to application to application
When does it end?
Where did it begin?
Taking it off boss
Need a drink of water boss
Yeah get some water there boy
Internets down.
Corporate is screaming they can’t get their dose of unimportant email.
Get a ladder and prop up the Exchange server.
AC is down in the data center.
Call Buildings and Grounds they’ll know what to do.
Google it Bob.
Google it now.
There’s water on the floor
The whole damn town is about to blow
Where’s the Calvary? At the Alamo?
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