when i think of quentin tarantino i think of revenge dressed in tight yellow leather carving a katana through the script. blood squirts like hershey’s syrup from the screen // when i think of quentin tarantino i think of anger boiling up from that squish-featured face. anger burnt and draped sexy and splattered across a car’s windscreen // violence is not violence when seen through a lens // death is a matter of perspective. cut it any way you like // a scene, a cake, a body // when i think of quentin tarantino i see the world sliced in two. trembling knees against a jammed door while vampiric vice threatens the unborn baby that is, perhaps, how quentin sees himself // a child, wrapped in a blanky of 35mm film, in the sewers of nazi germany, in the chains of american slavery, always a gun to his little poet’s head // oh to be quentin // to see oneself the bleeding creator, the sorrowful god // to forget that a painting does not hang in a locked room // that a victim is not just the man on the cross