Wes Anderson’s characters smoke their cigarettes like I do, holding them at the edge of their lips and failing to look cool.
I didn’t learn it from them. They didn’t learn it from me.
Wes and I have never met. I wonder why that is.
I think we are both ugly in the same ways, and have little obsessions bridging us.
I like how the colours bloom in his films, as if out of a radio play where the red is as red as red is supposed to be.
It’s never the yellowish tinge of an upset television set.
I don’t like hats, but I think Wes does,
and I think he has an affinity for asymmetrical faces and symmetrical lines.
Most of what he says is gibberish, so I think he makes the most sense out of all.
I am not sure how that works, but neither is he, I am sure.
I like how red the red is, in most of his films.
I like his red films, most of all.
I thought this was going to be funny, but it’s not.
I thought this was going to be like one of his movies as a poem.
But everything’s going haywire, and symmetry has taken a holiday
and I think, the red in my poem is just a bit too much like fake blood.
His characters don’t change clothes, and neither do I.
Unfortunately, his characters don’t smell like I do after a couple of days of ceaseless contemplation.
On certain nights, everyone wants to be an orphan.
I think I will send Wes love over the telephone one day.
he will find that hilarious.
Wes is quirky, that way.