A post-Django poem. I don’t know what the hell’s going on in here… Nothing you can trace back to the movie, not really, but something more generic, something about genre, which is what I always take away from good ol’ Tarantulatino, genre as a malleable sort of thing. Genre as slave to the creator, as opposed to a prison of classification, typification, and other unpleasant -ications. I like this one for reasons I can’t explain.
Plastic spurs dig into my flanks. Red lather.
My six-shooter is a tank.
I want to talk like Tommy Lee Jones
or that guy in No Country for Old Men,
but my cowboy twang is contrived.
My twang sounds Jamaican.
But I’ll fake till I make it, pardner.
‘Cuz I ain’t a movie poster, I’m the original work
written by a Texan on a gunmetal Mustang.
I spit tumble-weed, fake blood and dust.
Don’t make me draw my weapon.