No.
What does this have to do with cinema?
it has to do with garage. Plus film is visual poetry.
Hear the infernal legions plead
As Satan sings his songs of war
As i see mortal corpses rise
Up from the depths
I care not for the whore
I shall destroy the priests
Bound in chains and damned in Hell
I shall never release their souls
For the infernal torment always reigns
Summon legions of the night
For we are now as one.
Venom—In Nomine Satanas
The Cherrie Blossoms fall from the trees
Blow in the wind
Back and forth
Till eventually they hit the ground
And are trampled on by those who once gazed up at them in awe
I’ll post another if you like this one…
Epilogue (The Night):
The night, she, comes and goes,
And is with me as I write my prose,
The night, she’s, there to tell my foes,
To go fuck themselves.
A bit childish, but funny enough I think.
i’ll get back to you. it may take a good 3 to 12 hours to write though. Structure baby, and lots of it.
The body breaks
And the body is fine
I’m open to yours
And i’m open to mine
The body aches
And that ache takes it time
But you’ll get over yours
And i’ll get over mine
And the sun will shine
And the moon will rise up
The body calls
Yeah, the body, it calls out
It whispers at first
But it ends with a shout
The body burns
Yeah, the body burns strong
Until mine is with yours
Then mine will burn on
My flesh sings out
It sings, “come put me out”
The body sways
Like the wind on a swing
A bridge through a hoop
Or a lake through a ring
The body stays
And then the body moves on
And I’d really rather not dwell on
When yours will be gone
But within the dark
There is a shine
One tiny spark
That’s yours and mine
-Devendra Banhart
My head rests on your shoulder.
Remember when I drove the Plymouth east to Rhode Island?
Katherine watched the clouds pass.
Strong i felt and weak i feel.
Hold my hand.
The shore is close and you hear waves crashing as mothers grab their daughter’s wrists.
Love is a time-machine out of order.
I wish I
Could tell you
My hopes,
My dreams,
My cure for the common cold.
Each one starts
with standing,
Just on your right foot,
And hoping
That your left foot
Will come down.
But that’s where
My mind
Draws blank, and
That left foot
Does not drop. It stays,
Suspended,
All too close
To that simple
Destination.
I’m crap at poetry but not so stupid i don’t realise it. So here are 2 little haiku, of 17 syllbales, divided 5-7-5 (i reckoned less words, less idiocy- if less ambition)
I’ve caught the moonlight,
Enclosed in this small casket
as your secret gift.
Red maple now bare.
Here lies beneath poor bunny.
But soon the snowdrops…
Interesting, Stewart SFA Adams. You pre-empt something. Which confirms something else. Thank you everyone. I have no time to write a poem right now, but I’m going to integrate this thread into the writing exercises module for Garage when it launches.
she had an electric heart
she had an electric heart
blood valves which with minor pumps & spurts
let loose venomous wattage of shocks profuse
the sky knew her demands
vocal chords emptied hatred coupled longing
confusion eaten whole in a shrieked disbelief
trees broke in her conquests
she shoved a catapult in a canon & aimed it at herself
crashed with more wrath than jubilant eggs trapped in a piñata
she had an electric heart
which no one feared
save her own breast
GO
Fuller than yesterday,
Wiser than tomorrow.
The world saved itself.
Black Spirits are wrung out on trees
Teardrops plunge from the sky
Cars splash my puddle of thought
I’m on a concrete sea
A pointless ceremony awaits me
I walk around aimlessly
No direction,
Passing the art that is hung
both literally and figuratively
You just have to be there
well, as i sit here in a sunny French garden….a little haiku to make you all jealous
A sun-drenched garden:
you imagine, while i eat
juicy strawberries!
and as i fancy going tomorrow to the chateau of Chenonceaux, a silly little scribble:
The chivalrous chevalier of the chateau of Chenonceaux
Chose cherries for the chambermaid
Who challenged the chastity of the chaplain of Chartres
Night
but one light looms.
Reflecting onto the water,
the moon
a white
ghost of the sky
crying silently.
the poet sighs,
up high is
the moon bright,
burning eternally.
Pack your fists full of hate take a
swing at the world these kids
stick to themselves carry angst in
their words where will never be
apart of this cursed fucking town
so we stand amongst ourselves
watch it burn to the ground
burn to the fucking ground
Woman of the Arc, sing me a song
I’m thirsty and I want to
b u r n quietly
MAGIC MOMENTS
Magic moments meander through celluloid history,
From Melies and Griffith to the “Blair Witch” Mystery.
Marilyn feels the breeze in “The Seven Year Itch”,
Cary Grant comes a cropper – a technical Hitch.
“I’ll be back!” warned Big Arnie, and we knew it was true,
Moira Shearer dances to her death in The Archer’s “Red Shoes”.
A thrown bone becomes spacecraft in "2001"’s seemless match-cut,
Mr Orange lies down bleeding, shot in the gut.
Al and Bobby buy coffee and have a nice chat,
Lugosi and Karloff ham it up in “The Black Cat”.
James Cameron sinks ships and becomes “King of the World”,
King Kong’s heart stops beating, killed by guns and a girl.
Guitar versus banjo – Voight and Reynolds look on,
Newman shoots Redford – it’s “The Sting”, it’s a con.
The credits take time in “Once Upon a Time in the West”,
Stan and Ollie wonder who it was created yet another fine mess.
“Ride of the Valkryies” – it must be “Apocalypse Now”,
Sharon Stone crosses her legs – the reaction is “wow!”.
Brynner meets McQueen, and five more join the group,
The Marx Brothers prove immortal, their best is “Duck Soup”.
Ethan Edwards stands alone, cinema’s greatest loner,
Drew Barrymore’s "Scream"ing – some loony’s trying to phone her.
While Travis stands taunting in front of the mirror,
Sissy Spacek, as “Carrie”, is striking ultimate terror.
From the bowels of his mansion Kane whispers “Rosebud”,
And “Shane” rides off into the sunset, this time for good.
Freddy and Jason sharpen their hatchets,
McMurphy, the wacko, squares up to Nurse Ratched.
“By gad, sir, you’re a character” – the Fat Man to Sam Spade,
Chrissie Watkins, in “Jaws”, picks the wrong time to bathe.
Jack wants the waitress to hold onto the chicken,
The Big One goes off, ridden by yee-hawing Slim Pickens.
“Is it safe?” enquires Laurence, of Dustin’s “Marathon Man”,
Kathy Bates certainly isn’t, as James Caan’s Number One Fan.
Would you be willin’ to accept Mel’s Scottish burr,
Or go head-to-head in a chariot with Heston’s “Ben Hur”?
Slow motion gunfights define “The Wild Bunch”,
Hannibal, the gourmet, has an old friend for lunch.
Margo Channing advises “it’s gonna be a bumpy night,”
“The Quiet Man” and Red Danaher have one helluva fight.
Henry Fonda and Lee J. Cobb – two of the “12 Angry Men”,
“Dirty Harry” does it his way, again and again.
“Ghost” gets creative with a pottery wheel,
Miss Kubelik, for a finish, shouts “shut up and deal!”
Brad Pitt asks his partner what’s in the box,
“Goldfinger”, with Oddjob, plans on robbing Fort Knox.
Indy cracks his whip in some faraway land,
“Lawrence of Arabia” stirs it up in acres of sand.
Lemmon and Curtis dress up in “Some Like It Hot”,
Chief Brody, on the Orca, attempts to master that knot.
Woody blows his butt off in “The Thin Red Line”,
The bourgeoisie, discreetly charming, find it impossible to dine.
“Pinocchio” gets swallowed by Monstro the whale,
John Houseman, in “The Fog”, spins his wild tale.
Harry Lime talks profoundly on Borgias and clocks,
Louise Brooks shines ethereal in “Pandora’s Box”.
Forrest Gump keeps on running, when not fishing for shrimp,
In the basement Brucie listens to “bring out the gimp”.
Gershwin and Allen record "Manhattan"’s great beauty,
The accused in “Judgment at Nuremberg” were just doing their duty.
All moments to savour from the cinema’s best,
From an art form adept at putting life to the test.
And as we move forward, feeling Time’s angry whip,
Let me offer this word, this melancholic tip:
Gone are the days when Bogie was king;
When Cagney strutted his stuff, doing his thing.
James Stewart reached “The Far Country”, but it’s not of this earth,
Gone too Bob Hope and other purveyors of mirth.
Now we have Tom Cruise, Angelina, Leonardo and Mel,
We’ve got “Star Wars” and “Watchmen” and new tales to tell.
All totally different, and yet – simply put – just the same,
The heroes keep coming in this endless cinema game.
But I won’t trade my “Genevieve” for your new “Coupe de Ville”,
I’ll keep “Dr No” – you stick with “Licence to Kill”.
In my mind’s eye two giants come to a place,
The Duke and Clint Eastwood meet face-to-face;
Cagney and Pesci eye each other and frown,
Not a sound can be heard in this film noirish town.
It’s Old versus New in a fight to the death,
Walter Brennan counts down, the duo get set.
“Dyin’ ain’t much of a livin’,” says Clint with a snigger,
“That’ll be the day,” growls Big John and fingers the trigger.
Two titanic icons take aim and then fire,
The birds in the trees become a discordant choir.
The contest is over, a man has bitten the dust,
The townspeople stare, some of them cuss.
The victor strides forth, the crowd clears a path,
(Who would provoke this man and his wrath?)
One man steps forth and the silence is broken,
He offers the winner a white horse as a token.
The gesture is gracious, the townspeople approve,
But then a young voice pipes up when the man starts to move.
A sun-bleached child moves into the path of the beast,
Hearts miss a beat – suspense is increased.
“What if the other was faster with a gun?”
“That’ll be the day,” the man smiles, and rides off towards the sun.
HISTRIONICS
She had the face of a silent movie star,
all moon-eyed and sepia.
I could never tell if I was the
Hero or
the Heavy.
I put on some swell performances—
crummy ones too—
but she seemed to believe
them all.
Or maybe she just
wanted to be in pictures.
Everybody wants to be in pictures.
All I know is I needed a girl.
Nobody wants to see a picture show
without a girl in it.
That’s rule number one.
I twirled my cane and laughed.
She held my arm.
The editor was to cut
between us strolling along the deck and
the waterfall ahead of us
plunging down
into the rocks.
We pretended that when we’d
get to the brim we’d just keep floating,
beyond the edge, into the sky.
I wonder what is more cool
to be Cobra or GI JOE
Your life is not infinite
It is not ready until it stops itself
It is no better for the mighty
Love filled, tight chested, sightful, and fat breasted
Yogi vessel, tempting testicle clerics folding over
Vaginal envelopes to elope into the womb
Or the bit too skinny, fat, and more than
The many lapping from the spine’s
Candle light fighting not to be as black and white and
Generalized as I’m generating in this writing
So that they have their own writing on their tomb
Your life is not like mine, mine is whatever
It’s been going to be going onto, even when I
Borrow it’s carried in my own wheel barrow
And spread into the marrow without sparing
Me any of yours, and yours cannot be mimed
To even try is as easy to spot as an eight year old spy
It’s a crime against our nature.
dogs make most beautiful love in kitchen
eat lime, reality never ends
The sun came slanting into the room
across the old wooden floor
exposing the cracks between like tar on rotting teeth
Up the cherrywood bureau
and into the mirror
blinding him
He kicked off the sheets
wrapped tight
like a shroud
there was no denying it now
he’d made it through another night
By the end of the day
he’d be screaming
North
Farthest North there is a door standing,
brooding in the wilderness, it opens in-
side a cloud where children’s children
are laughing, despite humidity & bee-stings.
Below there is a burden, swimming in plague.
The cloud sneezes. The door exits.
I thought I knew robots until I met Fritz Lang
Still I knew nothing of cowboys till I met John Ford
God was trivial till there was Bunuel
An Eastern is a Western I found with Kurosawa
Bergman hurt me with his magic and wonder
And Tarkovsky showed me what I needed to see
I met Kubrick in the shadows dancing with Fellini
Godard with Truffaut doing what they pleased
But Eisenstein rained down upon Murnau
Exploding into Welles
There I saw in the street Coppola singing to Spielberg, and Scorsese
Antonioni flirted with Minelli
Houston shook hands with Disney
David Lynch and Hitchcock intimating
Gilliam disappearing
When Griffith spoke everyone listened
DeMille killed a million men
Wilder was the jack of all trades
Polanski was a conflicted man
Then the sky opened without warning
Who should fall from that golden light
None other than the mighty David Lean
Who filled the screen with might
Ray was a scream
Corman a corpse
Kazan was a genius
Then there was me
Who knows what I am or what I will be
But one thing is for sure
I will be something
If Tarantino and Burton can be
Then there is hope
There is a chance
For anyone with a dream
An Ode to Michael Bay
Roses are Red,
Violets are Blue,
Michael Bay can fuck off.
It was the night my neighbor died of heat stroke
I sat in my underwear, sweating, finishing my work
I poured myself a glass of whiskey, lit a cigarette, and popped in a porno tape
The woman in the porno had a bobbing black head of permed hair
I saw silvery glitter on her eye lids
She was being fucked in the ass by a guy in a gorilla suit
I put my papers down on the coffee table, stretched out on the couch
and thought about what I had seen in the clawfoot batthtub in Randy’s basement
I heard a whining noise
and saw the videotape’s black ribbon spill forth
and in the darkness I walked over and felt the heat from the television.
Judy, oh!
stewart SFA Adams
Just write a poem. One that you composed.