Sonnet XLIII. How Do I Love David Lynch? Let Me Count the Ways
by Angela Genusa

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I.

David Lynch and I are sitting high up in a very small dog made of glue, talking disturbed bloody clumps of Band-Aids looking for love in hell.

Why he has a coffee I do not know.

"You remind me of a small erotic riding lawnmower," he says.

"For the love of 47 different kinds of bovine-cult saddle shoes!" I exclaim.

"You remind me of glue, Mom, high on Gucci," he says.

"Can I bum one of your Ganesh Spirit cigarettes?" I ask.

He begins to croon to a Vedic fish:

"I sing this Palme d’Or poem to you
Finding love in hell so blue
I hate iPhones, but I will send you
a complimentary "Polish Poem" fetish ringtone
Straight from my heart of pure bliss."

David Lynch shoves a pair of my used Eagle-Scout panties into his mouth after nuking them in the microwave for 15 seconds. The panties remind me of the red rags that car mechanics use in automotive shops. With a mouth full of warm panties, he mumbles, "Sometimes you just catch a fucked-up trauma TM fish. You have to dive deeper within."

II.



It is sick and wrong how much I love David Lynch. But who can't help falling in love with stories made of Dwarfland-goofy depravity-logic stew, Muktika Upanishad abstractions, twisted mystery man chutney, and heavenly radiator fumes.

"Holy mother of God," he yells. "I've cut myself shaving! Where are my cottonball facial prostheses?"

III.





David Lynch hates iPhones and pretty much every other form of technology, but he loves flash animation and giving the weather forecast from purgatory.

I show him my latest digital work of art, titled "^O image map Maharishi mouseover rabbit highlighting scene^."

"WOWEE, BOB!" he yells.

I tell him he could work his mojo on a pretty brunette, who doubles as a consumer-model Sony PD150 digital-video camera. I show him scenes of innocent, animalistic sex and acid torrent flashback downloads on the Internet. I draw him a scene from my dream about Chinese foot-binding and taxidermy techniques that we could use to create set props. He says, "That reminds me of Psychopathia Sexualis Fruit Stripe gum and trippy industrial S&M spooky sounds." It gives him an idea for something, and he runs off in the other room to go create a new film or an oil painting or a cartoon or something.

IV.





It's no secret that I fell in love with David Lynch. It's hard not to love his by-gosh by-gum by-golly gee-whiz Jimmy Stewart twang, the way he combs his incestual hair, or eats his Oedipal cherry pie. He's a perverted kid in a candy store.

David Lynch runs back into the room, his fingers fluttering as if he stuck them in a lit Christmas tree plugged into a small televangelist. He says, "It's a fir tree ring within a fir tree ring within a fir tree ring within an oil painting within a film within a small troubled woman from Chihuahua, Chihuahua, Mexico."

V.



The few times I have gotten angry with David Lynch, he would try to make me laugh. He would become six men and repeatedly run into a wall until he was a bloody pulp, puking all over the Art Deco furniture. At first I was horrified, but then I began laughing because it was so absurd. We were cracking up. Then we ripped all the red velvet drapes down from the walls, wrapped ourselves up in them, and began rolling around the floor as if we were on fire. "Put me out! Put me out!" we yelled back and forth to each other, laughing maniacally.

VI.





David Lynch begins crooning again, in his wonderfully nasal voice that feels like cold KY Jelly on your lips instead of chapstick. "It's straaaaaaaaaaaaaange....what lovvve doessssss..."

"Hey, Buddy!" he suddenly yells in mid-croon. "Let's go to Big Bob's! I'm ravenous. I want a large Douglas-fir air-freshener milkshake—with pet monkey chi-chi sprinkles on top!"
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Inland Empire

Golly, This is David Lynch Ecstasy Cocktail!