Francis was pissed when he saw fat, bloated, not caring he was a Godfather star, Brando.
He said, “Fuck it. Kurtz will be a hedonistic shadow, the philosopher pig at the end of the river–” that place where strung-out Hopper screamed out poems only the sky understood.
But it made for a good film, and who needed a fucking script. I just blew my heart out, attacked by demons, booze and coke. And Francis said, “Fuck yeah, this guy is ready.”
So he started filming:
I saw my past and future tied up in barbed knots. I was the flickering light at the end of my own tunnel–and god it felt good in my bikini underwear as I danced, delirious, and oh so deranged:
who is that fuck in the mirror?
And then I started doing all that fake Kung Fu my blitzed brain said I should do: I will kill that fucker. I will punch his face into repentance and forgetting.
And I did. I punched the mirror.
And it screamed its sharp shards all over my fists and fingers, the red danced everywhere. I was laughing at color and light, hope and sin, and oh so much sultry, sick memory.
And then, somewhere from the dark I heard, “Cut!”
Yes, I was cut. I broke that loser’s face and the sting through my body was happiness.
“Don’t you dare, you fucker, this is my soul I finally found. Keep the cameras rolling. Look at the red sticky roses covering my body.”
I smeared them all over my face. I fell onto the ground screaming and laughing covered in their blood. “Look at the truth I just committed,” I yelled into the darkness where Francis sat…
“All that beautiful pain, thank you, Martin,” is what some say they heard him say.
David Calogero Centorbi is a writer living in Detroit, MI. Recently published work in The Daily Drunk, Dreams Walking, Versification, Brown Bag Online, Horror Sleaze Trash, Anti-Heroin Chic, Crow Name, and Crepe & Pen. He can be found here on Twitter: @DavidCaCentorbi.