picking thru the ruins w/a stick. the wet leaves against my legs and the bottoms of my feet. in my pocket the silky roll of my stockings. my stomach is contracting. the stones are cold and wet. the rein of virgil and in the distance another castle, parted like the scalp of a student, by a seizure of a mold. the quaaludes. the fluid muscle of the crowd. the hot lights. action as a blade that cuts another slice. history. limbs. nostalgic ruins in/ruin. the suspicious rivers and the caves of naples. a ripple in the water is another rib. floating dog. an anklet. a photograph-posthumous blank. a still from a film not shot.
observe cinema! what is kinder more flattering than images released w/breath? a still? death frozen and flat in a dimension of shadow and point. or the final shots of pasolini mugging mineo in an alley. emotion surfaces on the face or a screen. the light projects thru the pores of a face of promise. phasing future fusion. filling veins w/ice until one is altogether numb.
dubbed and brittle i can not speak. i am unable to read my lines. the lights make my lids sweat and my eyes fill w/salt. i never saw so many tears. i seek a way out. funeral music is not abstract. a dirge evokes wailing and weight. the film/maker is blinded by the bright night. he has gone underground he has gone under. somewhere a slayer goes undercover. fascist or lover it doesn’t matter. the scenes of pasolini remain even as he is lowered. a flag of flies unfurl. over there, in the flowers, erect fellows playmate. their sticky plumage crudles the blood of observers.
the distress of molten cadavares. the winds shift and my nostrils split. the rigid triangle the bolt of the hare. now racing now clinging to the great wave. a bright green feel. molecules drop and accumulate in the shifting treasure box. the box tips and the molecules slip and slide down a ramp of sight rays. i am lying on my side within the bowels of a captive plane. the co-pilot is exploring the cockpit-my intestines. i am attempting to poke a finger thru the pale membrane of a window. to adorn w/ insertions a bank of corrosion. a wind screen of gyrating inlay. mercy god. my imagination is so dense i must machete. the jungle thick w/breach of promise to sleep in peace. this potent state of grace is corrupted w/ the constractions of amazing takes. photographs. stills from a scene not shot. messages. hands. the rows of silence. the rotating hips of our lady of the latin highways. dwelling in favor in the cave of italy.
the rocksound. i am ninety feet up. attacched to each foot is the deck of a ship. the mast is becoming wings. hair ribbons. the night just laughs just roars. light splinters. i’ve been up here before on this hot walk. the alcohol is exotic and thick w/ sugar. contraband cigarettes and hot liquors. my fingers are melting but i no longer need them. in the distance-musings, rock is the amplification of the lower head, so arranged that the whole inflorescence resounds as one blooming note.
OPERA IS TRUTH AND CARUSO IS QUEEN
a salon. a salad and cocaine and the seasoning. the white and impulsive grain that lines the sacristal and sexual throat.
the hotel de france. hard sailors from vienna. the motorcycle scores. seams bursting in leather and the aristocratic scams of the leather rider. all this exists. woman is as prehistoric as a kiss. and here is one shaking her palms at the sky. an actress of unmeasurable task shot by none save the eye of I.
the hot breath and false caresses of a fisherman digging a hook deep in the root of the neck of a heroine. she is overcome. first w/desire and then the desire not to be snuffed out. flutter of hands and lids. seven movements becoming seven stills in the archive of the forbidden cinema. that which has no perceivable direction. that which is not yet shot. the sleeve of a silk robe rolled up. the burning cotton. alcohol. she is shot up delicate, discreet. drifting in a cushion – massive and functional as a cloud. the slanted position of the maiden neo-pronto. the erect muscle, the thrust of a hip glistening w/crisco and sweat. the beads strung together w/thin strands of spittle. freeze frames. the hand of the hero – the uranian guerrilla. a minute 2-way radio. platinum antennae dotted w/eyes of sapphire. he runs his fingers along the artiface. perforated jewels pock the smooth surface of his aching palms.
he leaps. he is free and stumbling over the rocks, dehumanized by war. no ties w/the shore, he drags thru the tired halls that lead to grande ballroom. drawings of motion. he spins and collides into a wall of sound – breaking thru the spectacle of illusion. ladies levitate. robots w/hearts of god serve and extend. the art of technology. the electric guitar is a voice as well as device. a bird in space. an oscar – sizzling sculpture yearning to be palmed.
a slow dissolve. my hands are borrowing filth. earth too, is alexander. i sup and plot and map put my territory – this earth i have been eating. i am strong and ready for the climb. i enter a ballroom littered w/oversized film cans. shots are blown on the curve of an exit. there is no way out; we are alone together. he has the eyes and the clothes of combat. we are tracked within an expansive joke – a majestic budget – a love travelogue seen by none and lived by some. rapture 7: wherein the former spectators are now the stars caught in the universe of mutual and prophetic trance.
Regard! she is my face
Regard! slots everywhere
– the music is visceral
– poem as plot
– a poem is a collection of words and mixed grill
a powerful sequence: a grey mule ejacultaing and a young girl splitting. underexposure. it is impossible to identify or deface her.
the ping of the xylophone is not rain. transcend violin. a roof of tears and corrogated tin. violence becomes them and he is purple and impatient and pummeling.
the films are disintegrating, amateur, breaking into parts. the heroine removes herself from the fading aura. in life, in lens, they embark. the drums sound.
– its a ship
– no its a motor
– no its my heart
oxygen on my back. naked and greased. in black. my heart beating like mad. moving thru the black box. free of adornment. the wind screams thru the tiny holes in my naked ears.
—note on immortality—
WITHOUT THAT INCONSIDERATE CUT
I COULD HAVE RULED THE WORLD-
WITHOUT THAT RUDE SLICE
THIS MOVIE WOULD HAVE GONE ON
italy. how lovely you are. and how treacherous is your make-up. i am an insect, a movie star. where are my shades and my boots i am lost. i have taken a lot of speed and i can’t bear to live outside film. the radio and the waves of the sea. i’m coming down i’m throwing up. the radio says they are burning the fields. the blood of poppies. the metallic mouth of a woman sleeping.
the actress blows kisses to pierre pa-olo rising from the sea. victim of fascists and faggots of the purity of his art. waving goodbye. the thrust of his arm. the trust of his view.
pasolini is dead. et morte. shower of petals. flower girls deflowered. virgins skewered and devoured. film-deaths of hollywood stars runs simultaneous split screen 24 hours. vats of flesh and grape shot thru amo valves of cannons. balls of sight. falconetti advancing in a suit of turquoise armor. a tuxedo of manner. on the long beach twist men w/scales of sores for wings excreting chalone. ocean spittle and slobbering heart. picking the ruins – our pates w/a stick. our mines are going. we bleed on the sheets. diamonds, not coal, cease to exist. fuel lives! and life, like film, goes on.