Literature In Los Angeles

Archive for February, 2010|Monthly archive page


In LITERARY FICTION on February 16, 2010 at 10:20 am


She makes me wanna die….*

She takes her time. Easy ~ she has it.
Easy ~ she is.

You can only wait. For her, to be back.
Your heart half stands in the green room.
Behind the velvet drapes, among the moon pollution, under the crumbling ceilings.

To cure you. For that, you call me.
As I touch you, you call her “girlfriend.”

She had to go. To town.
To that corner with no underground.

She needed a ticket. She needed a ride.
Russ took her.
I know Russ. You know him too.

Her absence fragments your words.
All. Our. World.

I cross the corridor.
To walk back. To my trashed dolls.

I sit in the darkest corner of the eternal room.
To not listen.

Then, I hear her car.
Her car, her girls and their ozonated convulsions.

To drag your virility out of its birthday of numbness. For this illusion, you gave her the power you took away from me.

I climb to the window. To look down.
At your teen whore queen.

Her wet head is looking around.
In my country yard, within my lost summers, inside the holy temple of my wax dreams.

She’s trying to park her ism of amusements.
Under my window, beneath the dwelling of my daughterness, down to the fortress of my innocence, along the sharpen alley of my wars.

But, there is already a big black Hummer, under this window.
Can’t you see?!

Your elfin whore’s insignificance cannot fit, in my pink and blue days.
Just let the red lights drive her back. To the dead hole the naive tricks of her cunt come from.

You try to learn the universe.
Can’t even converse in universe…..

I close the window.
Then, I climb down. To lie and die on these veins of wood.

Their claws will catch me.
Screaming pieces of beaten and broken dolls. They’ll suffocate hopes and scratch rose petals out of my skinned sleep….


My ears slowly open toward a blurry dawn.
The eyes start burning into the words of this song.
I wonder what kind of creepy weirdo selected it for the early morning radio program.

Cherish the things she knows
Says if I change my stride, then I’ll fly….

Myrtha’s laces are hanging from the wall in front of my bed.
Another day of rehearsal is calling for breakfast.

As I try to make it out of this silkless night, you come to paint of purple the orange shyness of this skyline’s rising sun.

Last night.
Spring Street station.
The Balthazar Café. The crowded air.

Then, your hand sliding down on her back.
And the sacred dream cracking down in a million leaves.
That was the exhalation of my last breath. The last for you, Scott.

The pictures of the old country house are still on the night table.
I was in search of an end. To these notes of torture.

The telephone rings.
Giselle is waiting for me downstairs, in an already congested sunrise to the Lincoln Center.

I’m trying to hurry. I wonder if my Ray-Bans are still in her car.
Huh, I cannot forget it. The most essential stage accessory.
I run back to the bedroom.

Here, as Myrtha’s silver heart lays her crown of daisies, lilies and vengeance on this bleeding psyche of mine, her Wilis crawl down to my ears to state your end, Scott.

The tomorrow yesterday you made me hate is today.
And, from today ever, the only cure for your grayness will be but the purple loneliness the now clearer lines on your face created for you yesterday.

Story by Liliana Isella.

* Makes Me Wanna Die by Tricky (video directed by Floria Sigismondi)

For the references to Myrtha, Giselle and the Wilis: 


In LITERARY FICTION on February 6, 2010 at 5:33 pm


A blonde talking head wearing nothing but a push-up bra and see-through forearm warmers.
She looks straight into the camera.
The doll intonation in her voice unveils a sexiness that never made it out of the college dorms:

 ― “Hi, this is Celesta Edgy and you should stay tune ‘cause I have a lot to say. And, I know you wanna hear it.”

Her attempt to charm gets cut by the TV jingle: fleshy babes, cartoon music and the title-revelation: LA’s Hottest Models Get Wild in Vegas.

Eighteen girls ~ nine tête-à-tête interviews; a “girl on girl” thing is the promise to the audience.
And, Playboy Bunny of the Century is the TV host in charge to keep it, starting with the first question:

 ― “Ok, tell us a little bit about where we are, right now….”

 ― “We are…” ― Celesta’s lungs already need to store a lot of air ― “…in a suite in the Palms Hotel… doing a very serious interview… for RAPE TV.”

 ― “…and…”

 ― “…and they are trying to get the sexiest, dirtiest secrets of mine.”

 ― “…they?!?” ― A nervous laugh comes out of Playboy Bunny. Then, she smiles. Kind of.

― “So, Celesta… what turns you on more? Danger or romance?”

 ― “Romance…?” ― the thin beauty’s squared, tightened, polished smile takes a few seconds of hesitation. Then, it explodes into a short, frantic laugh to the camera ― “…is this a rhetorical question?!?”

Playboy Bunny of the Century laughs back a softly hysterical “No!” and tries to adjust her discomfort on the seat.

― “Are you single Celesta?”

 ― “Yes. I’m very choosy. Dating is a long interview process… that usually doesn’t go anywhere.”

― “Well, we heard you interviewed this guy for a while….” ― Playboy Bunny blinks an eye toward the camera; a moment after, the screen pops up a picture of some one-day-famous rocker. Gold framed Ray-Bans cover half of his face; the other is consumed by a myriad of sins petted and ruffled by his long, thin, blonde hair.

He must be called Shannon da Anon and “there’s a dot dot dot on my soul today”* is the refrain of his major hit.
As from the backstage they put it on as musical background, a flirtatious Playboy Bunny is humming the words to the camera.
On those same notes Celesta stays still, but her composure of feelings is slowly moving to a trembling edge of childhood tears.

― “So, Celesta… one night stands?”

The childhood tears progress into wine-all-night morning nausea.

― “One night stands?!? Me?!? I don’t think I’ve ever had one….”

― “Welcome to the club….” ― Playboy Bunny freezes her veins into seriousness ― “…yeah, I don’t wanna catch some weird disease….”

 Celesta seems suddenly inspired:

 ― “You’d probably be hangover and wake up the next day and feel like… I don’t know. I just don’t understand those girls who can get that wasted and don’t know what they are doing….”

 ― “Yeah… me either. They make it bad for all of us.”

 They both take a moment of silence. To mourn the decaying morality of the wasted girls, maybe.
Playboy Bunny of the Century eventually breaks it:

 ― “Now, ‘cigarettes.’ Sexy cool or nasty ashy?”

 ― “Disgusting gross…. Stinky, disgusting gross.”

Playboy Bunny looks down to the right.

 ― “Yeah…. I made an exception, but….”

 ― “We all did, but….”

 ― “…but you don’t want to get cancer, right?!?”

 A suddenly uninvited hint of disappointment paints away some of the ether in Celesta’s eyes:

 ― “…these days you don’t even need to smoke cigarettes to get cancer, though….”

 ― “Yeah, you don’t. Isn’t it… scandalous?!?”

Other seconds of cluelessness on both sides.
But now, Playboy Bunny of the Century is seriously done. No more shades of sadness will obscure her own bright moment. A clear willingness to cheer up the RAPE TV spectators comes through a rejuvenated tone:

 ― “Ok. Let me ask you, Celesta… where are you from?!?”

The fragile model relieves a deep breath and ecstatically turns her words to the moon, already molested enough by the Vegas night restless lights:

 ― “I come from… probably the smallest town in Northern California. In California, actually.”

Soon her brand new comfort reveals the astonishing number of its inhabitants:

 ― “Eighty. Probably seventy-nine, now.”

 And, right on her native village, Celesta looses the grip on her hands that, just like Pontius Pilate’s betrayed Jesus, betray her.
She forgets why, so far, she has kept them elegantly still, right between her garter-belted crossed legs and a French bustier.

Under her fair, delicate fingers, a painful secret had found its warm shelter: the panties they made her wear for the interview are no panties.
Between her porcelain skin and the dusty velvet of that couch, she has been left with nothing.
Nothing but a pink, black scar.

Story by Liliana Isella.

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*Dot on my soul by Monster in the Machine.

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