The Garden of Living Flowers: PG.2

Benjamin Jenkins, Screenplay, Script, Short Stories, The Garden of Living Flowers, writing

ZACH

Is Tessa here?

 

THEA

I maybe saw her somewhere. It’s a masquerade boys, as per Holly’s request. I’m sure you detectives can find her. Here, take these.

 

ZACH

A what!

 

THEA

A masquerade?

 

ZACH

Oh good, I thought you said massacre.

 

Thea rolls her eyes and gives Patrick his mask. She hands him a Lilly to pin onto his chest and a nametag reading: PATRICK ALSTROEMERIA.

 

THEA

Here Pat. Everyone gets a genus as their alter identity.

 

She turns to Zach, handing him a Daffodil to pin to his chest and a nametag reading

ZACHARY NARCISSUS.

 

THEA

Yours is self explanatory (She painfully snaps the mask onto his face via rubber bands)

 

ZACH

Well this may be one of the last times I see you Thea, I am heading to Australia to work the ski lifts. It’s their winter starting up.

 

THEA

I’m gonna’ miss you Zach. (no conviction)

 

PATRICK

You got a fridge lovely? (clanks the last remaining 40’s in the bag)

 

THEA

Holly does, ya. Down the hall in the kitchen. Have fun boys.

 

They push past Thea into the party. The boys are met by a staircase, party streamers and the background tinkle of a band playing.

Holly Thompson and Stephen are talking in the hallway. Stephen is wearing a nametag that says STEPHEN VIOLA. He has a violet pinned to his chest. Holly is wearing a very small “sweet sixteen” dress. Her nametag reads HOLLY “HOLLYWOOD” ROSA. She has a white rose pinned to her breast.

They are laughing and chatting, drinking from small glasses of champagne. They are both wearing masks.

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The Checklist

Benjamin Jenkins, poem, poems, poetry, writing

Things that happen before writing:

 

Go through my notebook.

Go to the gym.

Go for a walk.

Go on IMGUR.

Go on Facebook.

Go on a date.

Go on my iPhone.

Do laundry.

Blink.

Think about writing.

Think about women.

Think about my Father.

Think about life.

Don’t call.

Mop the floor.

Drive a car.

Eat a banana.

Smoke a joint.

Smoke a cigarette.

Breath.

Cry.

Laugh.

Succeed.

Lie.

Try to find a star in the City sky.

Fail.

Hope that writing comes.

Have a breakup.

Masturbate.

Have a relationship.

Sex.

Have a pint.

Watch the squirrels run around the rafters.

Watch the dawn.

Watch the haze.

Watch a show.

Watch a videogame.

Plant some seeds.

Wait for spring.

Watch them grow.

Watch the hour slide on.

Watch it snow.

Ski.

See a friend.

See a foe.

Drink scotch.

Adjust my sight.

Drink a glass of water.

Drink coffee.

Move here.

Move there.

Fall in love again and again and again.

Shed some skin.

Shed some light.

Shop for groceries.

Change my ink.

Touch paper to pen.

Pet Jack.

Let Tony distract.

Me with his violin.

Type a written poem.

Use the bathroom.

Bring in the afternoon.

Listen to music.

Get a tattoo.

Serve tables.

Fall asleep.

Count some sheep.

Count my change jar.

Count some days.

Play pool.

Take a shower.

Bob in the traffic typhoon.

Tell myself I am a writer.

List off my credentials.

4-20 Laundry

Benjamin Jenkins, poem, poems, poetry, writing

It’s April

Twenty Twenty Fourteen

Easter 4/20

A good day

For Laundry

George’s Spin Cycle

Adverts the Triple LOAD

Along with realistic

Fake tropical plants

The owner’s driftwood walking stick

Retired above the entrance

She hobbles about freely

Bangs on coin slotted machines

With a closed skeletal fist and

The cold-hardened strength

Of aged Eastern Europe

I measure my time here

Under a cumulous tide bubble mural

In fistfuls of quarters

I measure my time here

Under fluorescent lights

In ounces of detergent and Perrier

Perrier by Andy Warhol-

What would the Artist think?

Turning that primed revolver

From the consumer to advertisement

Only to have that green bottle

Turn it right back

We may be consumers but luckily

Companies feed on culture

I say all this after a spliff

Of futile attempts at Snapchatting

A Monroe smoke ring

The Garden of Living Flowers: Pg.1

Benjamin Jenkins, Screenplay, Script, Short Stories, The Garden of Living Flowers, writing

EXT-GRASS OUTSIDE HOLLY’S HOUSE- NIGHT

 

The shadow of Patrick taking a piss is illuminated by a streetlamp.

He pees into the grass and talks to Zach who is just off camera.

The laughter and bump of the party is in the distance.

 

ZACH

I just want to get in and out buddy.

 

PATRICK

I know man, I know. I’m here because YOU invited ME. Let’s go in, say happy birthday and get the hell outta here.

 

Patrick’s shadow taps off and turns, showing that he is carrying a shopping bag full of 40 Ounce bottles of malt liquor.

 

PATRICK

Good thing these bags are plastic!

 

He laughs, shaking the bag dry.

 

ZACH

That’s disgusting. Learn to aim bro.

 

Zach reaches into the bag and pulls out a bottle.

The sound of the cap being twisted and a fizz is heard.

He takes a drink and sighs, handing the bottle off to Patrick.

The camera follows the swinging bag and their legs as they make their way up the front walkway of a house.

They ring the doorbell .

The sound of bumping bass and the chatter/laughter of a party is heard as the door opens.

A eighteen year old girl with pigtails opens the door. She is holding a basket of flowers and name tags. She is wearing a light purple party dress with frilly sleeves. She is wearing a light purple mask that matches the color of her dress. Her name tag reads THEA ASTER, pinned to her breast is a New York Aster.

Her excitement at who she thought she was greeting turns to ash.

 

THEA

OH! Hey boys… It’s me, Thea! Welcome to the party!

 

ZACH AND PATRICK TOGETHER

Hey Thea–

 

Zach finishes the 40 and places the empty bottle on the railing.

He belches loudly.

 

One With Nature

Benjamin Jenkins, poem, poems, poetry, writing

My eyes swallow

The approaching landscape

Pine needle, milkweed, Pine and Maple trees

Shagbark hickory, Acorns, ferns, Marigolds, and Wintergreen.

My blood is Autumn

There are Rhododendrons

When their leaves begin to die

They turn a loud, ripe yellow

The neighborhood and I

Would pick them as bananas

My breath is a breeze

Through painted leaves

Harvesting my imagination

Churning real world commodity

My bones are branches

Hiking boots eat it all up

Carrying me from the mouth of the trail-head

The blue sky smells of approaching winter

With a hint of Lagavulin

My mind is Ocean and Mountain

No matter how hard we try

It’s hard not to leave a footprint

BJ&K#9

Benjamin Jenkins, poem, poems, poetry, writing

Electricity sprays through my veins

I maintain this same ink stain-

A mundane selfless act

Of writing my thoughts.

I light another cigarette-

Watch the embers flick

Flash turns into ash

Smoke turns to my breath.

 

The Walrus said:

The time has come-

You fell from grace and

I just wanted a small taste.

As we skip along this

Redbrick Road-

Viewed by topographical vantage points

Step on a crack

Shatter your Mother’s facts.

Like the sidewalk’s weeds-

Peeking for the slightest hint

Of Vitamin D

Crevices spell the initials

Of love-sick Scarecrows.

Abstract ink bleeds

Like mascara streaks-

Only the cowardice in the Lion knows

This ink is the doubt that grows.

Condensation of lust soaked skin

A sticky situation when

There’s no lubrication for the Tin Man.

 

In the pulmonary arteries

Of the Hemingway Reincarnates

Rhythmic typewriters click-

Splashing ink into nonsense.

Summerhyme in humid air

Bleeds the present into past tense

And while we all wait-

The tides will undertow us

Away with the wake.

Sweet October Oysters

Benjamin Jenkins, poem, poems, poetry, writing

You wake up early

To make low tide.

The Ocean retreats for miles

A sand and seaweed prairie.

The wind ripples puddles of

Seawater in sparkling carpets.

Five inch Ocean Tankers float

On an inch of horizon.

Sea life skitters for shelter-

Star loots tide pools and carries sea rocks

As though they were sticks

Armed with flat-head screwdrivers

We hunt Oysters.

They grow like flowers;

Clinging to exposed granite,

Clinging to what was the Ocean’s floor.

Welcome to our world.

Pry at their razor lumpy shells-

You’ll cut your hand without leather gloves.

It feels good to wash the blood

In purple-sand salt water.

Work in your screwdriver.

Scrape away the polyps,

Only take the three year olds.

Chip away the young and stick ‘em

Cement side down into the sand.

If your eager excavation

Exposes her naked,

Slurp it from the shell alive;

October Oysters grow sweet

To keep from freezing.

It’s Halloween after all.

The air is cool and salty,

Releasing opaque memories-

Lined with gold and silver.

In such an expanse

The mind really begins to wander.