Smokin Dust Till Dawn

Movie Time

 

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Don’t Go In It’s A Trap

Pic of Love Under Lights

Photo Creds: K. Shawn Edgar & Woodheavy Brown


Let me paint you a movie on wax-covered cylinders. They will go round and round, so you don’t have to.

Cylinder One

(Press Here)

Man at the storefront. Woman at the fountain. Let the lens decide. Pull focus or dolly forth? It’s the balance of equals; the split-screen of one possible equation of humanity, moving in a 360-degree spin. A dark carnival for the examination of our loves, appearing in black-and-white, only when viewed from the corner of our eyes. Freeze frame. Open your aperture settings and let the fullness of light stream in. It’s all the colors humanly visible and invisible, flourishing in dynamic overlays. Curtain.


K. Shawn Edgar | Frost Demon | Lower Being | Subhuman

Dream Mixer

 ÷•÷•÷

 

My fingers, grasping their frosty lip of love

the night-living couple in my mind’s image

is as slick as a common corporate executive

Slipping away now, into morning’s soft light

she is quick rising; I reach out one-handed

as we’re torn between the fluttering solidity

of REM sex and the lopsided linen of dawn

•••

Garfunkel

 ÷÷÷

 

Vascular scars

voices chained by whimsy

drab lead confetti

Is it falling

or are we flying?

The streets are a city’s

truth

distorted by modular

separation

 

  • No friends

  • Money gone

  • Chances nil

 

Hard urethane escape

has changed to

700c and Panaracer Closer

buzzing autos and parking lot

zombies

 

Healing a break is a trust

re-bonded

Stronger in desire

but weaker in actuality

After each step you think

this will never be the same

never to sprint up the stairs

with ease of youthful springs

Yet, look, the pedaling’s smooth

the challenge bright and clear

 

It’s unlike trying to watch that

movie with professor Garfunkel

where everything’s so drab-heavy

with lead confetti caught in storm clouds

that never truly burst, never release you

from the film’s tiresomely witless pace

Its sad ideas floating with bipolar wings

whipping up vague cinematic trauma

only to click stop and run for the pedals

çå†

Movie Sex

image

A look through the lens of celluloid love

Limousine backseat with bubbly
Steamy glass shower stall
Another person’s bedroom at a party
In the childhood bed at your parent’s house surrounded by Nirvana posters and Jet Li cardboard stand-ups

Sometimes it’s movie wind and ballet grace
Other scenes are all public restroom, heels on the toilet seat, raunchy

And a dude with his pants shoved down yells, “This is it, baby. I’m gonna pop a cap in Sancho!”

Whilst others, the art house films, love is dreamlike and flesh, a landscape you dip us in. Cellophane! Earth and water, chocolate and blood, all feel the same. Yet, they strike us with unique blows.

In the international film fest, sex is transparent blue paintbrush strokes flashing over two women or two men, rolling in naked cash, with eerie orange clouds drifting outside of softly lighted windows. And there’s a bulky suit with a pistol climbing the stairway; his stony, ruthless eyes foreshadowing the climax

Teen lovers doing it in the wild woods, and just as the scantily clad, barely legal woman is about to come … the beast-with-two-backs is torn apart and devoured by hillbilly circus freaks

FADE TO BLACK