[stylist] Poem - "True Romance" - Final Draft

[William L Houts]

Hey Gang,

As you can probably tell, I've been going through my poetry folder and 
digging up some old favorites.  The following poem takes its departure 
from the film "True Romance", as you can tell by the title.  In the 
movie, there's a scene between Dennis Hopper, who plays the hero's 
father, and Christopher Walken, who plays a Mafia assassin on the trail 
of Christian Slater, Hopper's son, who has made off with a good deal of 
Mafia cash.  Now, the language of this film is vulgar, to say the least, 
and I've retained that vulgarity to be true to that film, and to its 
characters.  If you object to the use of naughty words at all, this poem 
is probably not for you. But I think it's one of my best, and if that 
interests you, then I encourage you to take a peek at the following.


--Bill


---

Dennis Hopper in TRUE ROMANCE



The devil spoke of pantomimes

then smashed your nose:

the fist came down like truth

the ex-cop thinks how

many times have I done that myself,

fucked some bastard up for shitting me?

The Sicilian is talking, the guys

behind him are restless as wings,

the fist comes down

and it doesn’t matter

you’re off the force for years

alone someplace with your stupid dog.

you knew someday he would come,

the man with the fist, a mouth

full of death.He says your boy

has done some shit but it’s you he means:

(that raid, you shot that whore in the eye)

You weren’t so clear in your head

those days, you sloshed

like a bucket of spunk and rage; like the world

was always kicking your face you spilled

on your wife, that whore, the guys

you fucked up alone in a chair.

The floor of your heart was cold

with piss and sterile light.

Where is the boy? he asks.

Your face all noble and stupid

against him, he opens a mouth in your hand

more eager for talk:he’ll open others,

one of them screaming a name, an L.A. address

and your son will inherit this chair from you.

You bum a smoke.The Sicilian is gracious,

he thinks you’ll talk; if you lie,

he’ll whittle you down to betrayal.

When the cigarette’s done, you tell

the truth about the devil.

It comes to you easy, like a paper

and coffee from God, and your enemy’s eyes

burn wrath like oil when you read the news:

How the Sicilian’s a slave to history,

the craven son of an ancient rape.

You call him a nigger, fruitof Moorish pillage,

glittering, dark and impotent.You call him an eggplant.

Then your aria’s over.

The Sicilian can only kill you once.

All laughing rage, he turns to load his gun.

The coffee of God has gone

through your guts and your son rides away.

He came for information; you gave him

another day to be something more

than a drunk, some fucked up violent

schmuck with a gun, a mouth full of death.

The coffee of God is gone:

and there’s nothing for you

but terror, a scared ex-cop,

a hot seat cold with piss.

You think of that girl your boy brought,

how she kissed you goodbye.

She wasn’t a whore; she was nice.

Maybe they’ll make it together.

Bound and enthroned, you wonder when

did I ever serve and protect until now?

When the devil’s kiss opens

your brain to the last page

you read there:

this is what it meansto be a king.


















-- 


"Oh, Sophie!  Whyfore have you eated all de cheeldren?"