I Wish my Life was a Wes Anderson Film, poetry by beachglass at Spillwords.com

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I Wish My Life Was a Wes Anderson Film

beachglass·February 19, 2025

English Poetry

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I Wish My Life Was a Wes Anderson Film

written by: beachglass

each morning an aesthetic pastel sky waits to behold
an innocent perspective with nostalgic attention to detail
in my playfully scripted retro romance I stroll through surreal
geometric panels and intricate bold patterns in a dreamworld
where each thought holds the possibility of a poignant epiphany
I am the underdog dressed as a heroine in every scene
surrounded by adoring fans and a consistent color scheme
I wish my life was an endearing cinematic masterpiece
with a clever montage that includes all my favorite outtakes

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beachglass

I am an unpublished freelance writer. My personal writing is mostly creative writing, poetry and prose. I write about what inspires me to focus: nature, emotional growth, the search for knowledge and dreams. I've been writing poetry for most of my adult life, and sharing it on a personal website. I consider myself to be an intuitive writer, meaning, I write what I feel in that particular moment. The purpose of my writing is to establish a connection, and with that, a deeper understanding.

Suman Pokhrel

Suman Pokhrel is a Nepali poet, lyricist, playwright, translator, and artist. He debuted in 1999 with a poetry collection and has since published works, including translations of Shakespeare and global poets. His poems are translated into many languages and taught across South Asia. A two-time SAARC Literary Awardee, he also received Asia’s Inspiring Poet Award and was named Author of the Month by Spillwords in June 2023. Beyond literature, he works as a freelance consultant in socio-economic research, rural development, entrepreneurial development and creative writing. He began his career in Nepal’s civil service and later worked with international NGOs. He holds degrees in Science, Law, Business Administration, and Economics.

Condoms by Seán Óg Ó Murchú

They all laughed at me. All the dinner ladies. It started with your one, I’m after forgetting her name now… Smelly Nelly’s ma. A wet little tear trickled toward her tattooed cheekbone. She was roaring red. Her harsh, wheezing laughter sounded like a black taxi tackling the Whiterock Road, her throat destroyed from all the fegs she used to be hoofing into her. She called over the other dinner ladies then, an army of them. Or maybe it was the curiosity of her horrid laughing that brought them over… I can’t remember.
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I looked between herself and the girls. Jesus Christ, I said in my own mind, Mental Mick is after stealing all my crayons that I’d been hoarding for myself there before the break...

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