Thursday, November 27, 2008

Cleaving the American Tree

sotto / porch / cedars / rain

“The poem has become
the moment of perception
itself”—Samuel Chartres,
“Larry Eigner,” Some Poems Poets

the rain—coming down
on the porch—sitting here
in my wheelchair—being myself
immediacy—it’s a funny thing
when you’re—imprisoned
since birth—by cerebral palsy

a big fat zero—a spastic
sitting here—in a wheelchair
living inside—disability denouement
that’s what—my parents thought
they loved me—but not until
i got a remington—then a royal
did they suddenly—understand

i could talk—to them
thru my—index finger
i got better at it—over time
one day—i heard cid corman
on the radio—reading poetry
then immediacy—took off
impromptu—words flew

I was free!!!!!!!!!!!!

Cleaving the American Tree

emerald city / red sky / jet overhead

“it’s a waterfall enough
over time”
—Larry Eigner

rainy dayz—rainy nightz
monsoon drag—here it comes
all kinds of traffic—up in the sky
jets—boeing seatac puget sound
rush hour traffic—rainy morning
down in the cabana—boytoy sleeps
tattoo tree—how he flexes it
bayliner by the dock—seagulls whitecaps
crows in the cedars—rains of ranchipur
lana turner—finally gets out of bed
it’s raining cats & dogs—and elephants
it’s a waterfall day—a real gusher
she looks—around the bungalow
what a dump—she says
sun comes out—they take a spin

Cleaving River Phoenix

My Own Private Idaho

“A poet learns almost
everything from his
own verse”
—George Oppen,
Selected Prose,
Daybook, Papers

what does—the vase say
the one there—in tennessee
surrounded—by woods & streams
how does it—do its trick
that thing—words can’t do
and that—red wheelbarrow
sitting there—in backyard rain
why is it—so fucking important
no wheelbarrow—should be that way
hogging up—all the attention
time to cleave it—my own idaho
time to ditch the vase—and wheelbarrow
goodbye miss stevens—goodbye wcw
time for—weltschmerz drag
time for—my own personal idaho

Cleaving Pessoa

Maritime Ode
—for Fernando Pessoa

Alone—on the deserted dock
Nausea—and the summer evening
Wanting to vomit—sick of the sea

And past the sandbar—a steamer
Snaking its way home—to me
A trail of smoke—slithering behind it

My hangover tells me—I’m dead
The seagoing sense—the stench
Rotting old dock—slimy stinking fish

There’s no happy mystery—to death
Sharks come and go—and bottom fish
No time for nostalgia—who cares

Shades come and go—and dead poets
Who knows why—who cares
The sun’s slanting rays—over Lisbon

The changing light—over Portugal
Holding on to the railing—looking down
A dead seagull’s—ogling eyeball

Who cares—my weak sisters
My haughty—gay Heteronyms
Pompous doubles—of the Closet

The fading light—full of dread
Suddenly—I’ve become myself
Who knows me—who cares

The steamer—sailing home
The ancient city—without tears
Lesbos Lisbon—Diva of the Night

The only thing I want—the steamer
The dark young one—on board the ship
The Portuguese youth—who avoids me

And yet here I am—waiting for him
Lisbon wants him too—more than me
Seagulls overhead—a mauve sunset

To live this way—always on edge
So immediate—like all of Europe
On the verge—of World War II

Guernica Spain—stunned by bombs
Picasso paints—screaming Stukas
Jellyfish guts—sticks to my shoes

Who knows—who cares
Berlin, Baghdad—Buenos Aires
Borges shrugs—Big Business smirks

So much—for New Orleans
So much—for Argentina USA
Vomiting my guts—into the sea

Staterooms, dining rooms—holds below
Young sailor cordage—gangway gauchos
Is this what—I’m waiting for

Nostalgic soirees—young sailors
Home from—oceanic solitudes
All too knowing—Atlantic interludes

I will know—when he says No
Straits, bays—gulfs between us
Keels, masts, sails—buried treasure

Top sails, pennants—tight hatchways
Boilers, engine sumps—pumping
Through him—teenage sunsets

Locker rooms—spilling out
Sunken treasures—broken oars
Tramp steamers—so nerve-wracking

A chance whistle—on the river
Makes me—weak in the knees
Getting seasick—thinking about him

How many times—did I go down
Drowning in his—bored arms
Titanic sinking—Band playing on

None of this—means anything
Even when—he shrugs okay
When no whores—are around

Novocaine (2001)

Novocaine (2001)

Well, I’m sure any red-blooded American male would agree—that any movie with Helena Bonham Carter getting nude is a good thing.

Especially on Thanksgiving—Turkey Day.

When most men have to put up with the usual No Exit holiday blues—being around their scummy wrinkly mother-in-laws & other crummy relatives.

Your snarky wrinkly ratty mother-in-law…

There’s probably nothing worse that a man has to do—than spend a whole day with his no-good slimy sourpuss old cunt wrinkly mother-in-law. Sitting there—at the clean white pseudo-gala dinner table. Gazing at the old slutty wreck—that your so-so wife will soon end up becoming.

Nothing’s more disgusting—than spending a long drawn-out mind-fuck day that way. Staring at the scrawny Turkey Neck—of your typical putrid Anne Ramsey "Throw Mama From the Train” old bag Witch. Her slithering wrinkled ugly jowls—her pale yellowing gizzard skin. The beady vulture eyes—that can never be pleased…

Everyman knows it’s the truth.

Waking up in the morning—with somebody you don’t love any more. Made even worse— during a long excruciating fucking Thanksgiving Day. Having to be around—the blue-rinse Medusa. The Creature from the Black Lagoon—who gave birth to your lovely wife. The woman—that sleeps with you… Sleeps—but no longer fucks or loves you...

Bring on the Novocaine—Turkey Day is here!!!

Everyman—a Dr. Frank Sangster. Everyman a straight-laced dentist—drilling his wife everyday. Until one day—love isn’t there anymore. Who because of one innocent mistake—finding yourself married to a Shrew. Gradually having your once tidy, prosperous life—transformed over time. Into the usual comic quagmire—of loveless sex, boring married life and the inexplicable desire to murder your wife & shitty in-laws.

Especially on Thanksgiving Day.

Just look at her—the old fucking old cunt gloating at you. Reading your disgusted dirty mind. She knows why you put “Novocaine” on the big family Flatscreen—replaying the movie loud again & again. There in the dumpy living room—especially the gauche lurid tit-scenes.

Over & over again—smirking at her.

Yes, your wrinkly mother-in-law—she knows how much you despise her. As you turn it up—the rumbling stereophonic volume. Doing the replay—with the changer. Just to insult her—Helena Bonham Carter’s lovely big-nippled obscenely sexy enormous tits. Protruding in 3-D—out of the wall…

She knows—it’s too late. You can’t get rid of her—you can’t get a divorce. There’s the two brats in college—the mortgage. The 401K—that’s now a 101K. The pink slip in the mail—the gas-hog SUV in the driveway. Nobody wants a skanky Esplanade anymore—it’s just a piece of shit.

Throw her off the train? How about off the freeway bridge? You know the one—the LA Expressway bridge. The one on TV—with OJ & his cavalcade of red-light siren-screaming police cruisers racing by. Making a joke of Murder USA—and getting away with it.

Your mother-in-law knows—you’re too chicken-shit for that. You don’t have the guts—to pull off an OJ stunt. She knows you’re stuck—a suburban slime-ball No Exit nightmare man. You hate her—she hates you.

Your lovely wife in the kitchen—mashing the fucking potatoes. Stuffing the bird—with cheap sodium glutamate glutinous greasy shit. The bloody-red cranberry sauce—the putrid TV dinner pumpkin pie. What a brilliantly offbeat, bitingly comedic film!

No wonder you need Novocaine!!!

Tuesday, November 25, 2008

C l e a v i n g E=I=G=N=E=R

C l e a v i n g E=I=G=N=E=R

”no more poetry!”
—Larry Eigner,
The Gertrude Stein Awards in
Innovative American Poetry

T h u r s d a y

But further—than a course
A stretch of thinking—more specifically
I seem to have got—to the poem
(piece of language)—as full realization
(well, not in a majority—2500 poems all told!)
some recognition of things—coming to (me)

In '71 or possibly '72—when I read an
Interview with Anselm Hollo—his surmise
That poetry is—finding things and
Putting them together—Provencal
The language—of the Troubadors
"Trobar" meaning—"to make poems"
As well as "to find"—them

Anselm Hollo didn't say—"to find poems"
I thought at first—say in a flash of hindsight
That’s what I'd been doing—for some time

Finding things & evaluating—months later
Maybe a year—or over a year later
I figured it wasn't—that so much
Evaluation or weeding—or accessing…
It was just—realizing things
Because there's really no—hierarchy
No ranking—no one thing actually
More important—than another
Not for long—anyway

The line-break—the stanza-break
The // (double-line-break)—blank line
Emphasis, stress—where not obscured
By meter—regular, routine stress
Appearing—frequent stress
Working at times—when appropriate

Feeling my way along—I could discover
The right value—so to speak
Momentary as it may be—nothing lasts forever
The ephemeral is ok—it's never quite enough
Though (anyway—there's always concern abt
The future—your own & a million others
And like anything else—the present
Isn't to be—exaggerated
In a few lines—of autobiography
Done for a anthology—Controversy of Poets
I wrote—"I'm cautious & come to things
By understatement—wary of exaggeration
Sotto voce—resulting in suppression of words

Don't like to begin—with a big B
As if I was at—the Beginning of all speech
Or anything—which may have something
To do with why—I've had an aversion
More or less—to going back
To the left margin—after beginning a poem

Bt otherwise—in hindsight
I just tried to do—the best I could
The simplest—& most immediate thing
Being punctuation—once words
Were forceful enough—a matter of getting
The distances—between words
And usages of p.. marks—to conform
As well as might be—to what there was
To say—as spoken

Then—these typographical devices
Themselves entering—discovery
And the initiation—of attention.
As with any detail—you don't take
Such a device for granted—using it
Routinely—or unnecessarily

Capital letters—following periods
It becomes available for—vital use
In other situations—so you can
Say the period—hasn't been abused
Hasn't deteriorated—been worn out

Well, as to—"beginning with a big B"
When I first heard Corman—I thought
He didn't read poetry—loudly boldly enough
Over the radio—but then I got used
To lower-case letters—& "sotto voce"
Plus non-routine use—of punctuation
From e.e. cummings—not closing
Parenthesis seemed—"sotto voce"

So I guess—when I mentioned
"suppression of words"—I was forgetting
Over the past 6-8 (?) yrs— I'd been
Eliminating—connective words
More & more in my head—automatically
Less & less—after writing them down
Keeping up the movement—the force

F r e y t a g

As Olson sd it—energy
When I took out a word—after I'd written it
Rather than moving—the next words
On that line—leftwards

I'd leave the space open—not filled
I didn't close it up—at the beginning of a line
Then soon (?)—I was indenting
Not returning—to the left margin

Wholly or much at all—directly
Per se—and the less of a margin
The less set—and rigid a poem appeared
The more easily—it seemed
Seems to come off—the page into speech
So too—I've generally chosen
Not to put a word—flush with the word
Above it—even a few lines above it
While I haven't held—to such fine preferences
For decades—and words aren't
The food or drink—they used to be

Of course—a period says "Stop"
And a comma says—both "stop"
And "go on"—whereas a lacuna
A gap, space—just says "stop"
Or, rather—maybe "pause"
Until today—I've thought it
Fairly strange—peculiar that
Recognition of things—and ideas
Should come about (partly)—by cadence

Emphasis, tone of voice—conveyed
To listener—or reader
No, communication—isn’t strange
It's just people after all—speaking aloud

Silently (thinking)—who give things meaning
Maybe, sooner or later—(about) recognition
Accuracy of the moment?—once, anyway…

(“I felt a poem was incomplete, but was struck, couldn't go on, till the next day I was able to and could finish it, after I put the last few words I'd got on 1 or 2 lines instead of 2 or 3, put less emphasis on them. Or the things or the idea(s) behind the words. This would indicate I had something of an obsession the day before, was somewhat fanatic (not that they were extraordinary-- "flat sky / going down / to leaves // birds river / sound . . .")--somewhere I got stuck in this March '73 piece (oder Stuck, ja!). While 16 months earlier, I now see again, in a preface to a mimeographed magazine I soloed in (#8 of EARTH SHIP, Feb 1972, Southampton, UK), I had, "If a thing is hard enough, no one can do it. I enjoy doing things that are easy enough. If it gets to be work, physically tiring, still it's enjoyable work"...........

("Also on that page I quoted Creeley's words in a '61 review, read in '71: "The line is the means to focus, . . . says how we are to weigh the various things we are told"; after mentioning I found the idea of poetry as "deliberate, purposeful speech," in the same review, soon after I thought of "a general addressing his army," rather than table talk. "And writing a poem has often enough been like discovering things.") So, yes, by late '71 I was getting to think of evaluation and discovery, in re what I'd been doing, and not trying too hard--a poem can extend itself pretty much unexpectedly, like a walk you're out on, or, I've also thought, a coda in music, if you're not too willful. And I'd experienced new turns or twists of thought before I had the sense of intent, of weighing things. So in a sense doing a poem is like writing a letter. Robert Creeley put me up to my first booklet, which he issued from Mallorca in '53--one of the 10 poems occasioned by his writing me about Rainer Gerhart in bombed-out Freiburg; when RG died not long after, Ch. Olson mourned him in one of his powerful poems".........

(Since when I speak I'm not easy to understand even at my best when I give a reading, as I've been asked to do about 15 times, copies of what I'm reading are handed out to the audience or else projected on a wall or a screen. My first sizable collection, On My Eyes (88 or so poems), was published by Jonathan Williams in 1960. He started his Jargon books in Stuttgart, during his time in the U.S. Army. My book was JARGON #36. Maybe he published Olson before he returned to this country, to North Carolina. (Olson (1910-1970) was an exuberant giant as you may have heard, man and writer--I and my brother visited him once or twice (in '57 or 8 when I showed him a poem, right away he pulled out his portable typewriter and copied it!!

(A lot of what I've done, and most of what I've written these 8 years in California, often seems rather dull--the words fade out, for one thing anyway when there's been so many--or a strong piece echoes something a little stronger from years ago. Familiar sights are ok, hm, but you don't like to repeat yourself but to do something new or different each time. Or see things as if new. It's like wanting to stay young, at that. Either that or stop running around except if and when you feel like it. Hm, I've tried not to repeat any word (so at times this feels right and I've done it to good effect), for instance in putting a booklet or book together (and a title is part of a book). Well, what's kind of old to the writer may be new enough to the reader (I always mean to write short letters, of course, do things quickly. Huh! Well, these ten or 15 yrs I haven't kept up with anyone (or anything) for long. Anyway, I seldom take the time to take a look at the clock!!

(Don't puzzle—over my handwriting
on these pages—notes abt books

Good luck Regards

Larry Eigner

Monday, November 24, 2008




“we got trinaural hearing”
—Larry Eigner, “Do it yrself,”
Look at the Park

Now I’ve got—three “ears”

The front one—the back one

The one—coming down the street

Spontaneous thing

“when you search the
spontaneous thing”
—Larry Eigner, “The Fine Life,”
On My Eyes

When I search for—the thing
The spontaneous thing—already there
It becomes even more—spontaneous
Do it yourself—try it & see

What blooms—in drought
Isn’t you or me—it’s intuition
The other radio—the Red Sox one
The Orphée one—just ask Cocteau

Heurtebise—your chauffeur
Eurydice—your wife
María Casares—La princesse
The Land of Dis—Spontaneous now

Words—your Rolls Royce
Language—your motorcycle escort
Writing—thru the liquid mirror
Runtime—Saturday matinee

The more—you read
The more—you write
The more—you cleave
The more—you see

Letter to Ina Forester

2338 McGee Avenue
Berkeley CA USA
Wednesday Feb 11 87

You can—want
try to do—something
too much—or too little
and the question—how much
is enough—there's never much
of an answer—but enough
at times—and anyway
the question—it’s always there
is maybe useful—one way
or another—if not anyhow
something—in itself

Rosemarie W.. gave a talk
abt Claude Royet-Journoud and Anne-Marie Albiach in Paris

Except nowadays—often
things get—plentiful or routine
frequent—and you expect more
you don't think—“Lady Luck"
And I don't—come across
outstanding things—in daily life so often
things I put down—are likely dull or almost
relatively dull—like I used to
"hope against hope"—as a child
during exercises—physiotherapy
and other times—I'm inclined to
see if I can—make use of anything
taking comfort—from toeholds

[In margin:]

Since coming—to Berkeley
at the end—of August '78
frm W. Massachusetts—whre I lived
on a short street—in a small closed-in
neighborhood—I'm on a long street
and sleep—in a front corner rm
with 6 wndows—and I go out more
my life is more—various and diffuse

a long childhood—in a way

everything’s not—wholly repetitious
derivative—within the human ear or
eye's spectrum—all kinds of
high and low—frequencies
high-powered things—and otherwise
wavelengths—short and long
get to seem ok—you don't want
too few pitches—or colors or keys

Well, there's—both effort & luck, ah!
Before I read—"energy construct"
Charles Olson's—"Projective Verse"
in the early '50s—in Poetry New York
I thought—that immediacy and
force took precedence—over clarity
in reaction to—my mother’s advice
though I tried—wd've liked to follow
agreed with her insistence—to be clear
and about the same time—there was
Wm Carlos WIlliams!—"A poem is a
machine made of words"—medical doctor
ein Arzt?—but he said "machine"

not "organism"—a piece of language
that "works"—and functions
I "played by ear"—felt my way along
I was—(and am rather)
puzzled how theory—is relevant
How to apply—it anyway
I'm a primitive—when writing
doing what I can—when reading
the likelihood—I'm not getting much
at all of what's there—seems large
if I'd gotten wheels—and explored

more before age 10—fewer things
beyond—or nearly beyond
sight or hearing—my curiosity
might have been less—I might
not have tried so to speak—to see
through the walls—of factories
we walked—or rode past
although come to—think of it
there was some—yiddish spoken
by my parents—with theirs
and the Italian—spoken by neighbors
the italian too fast—for me to learn

any words—except "1, 2, 3,"
and loud—and far away
Until age 22—when I responded
to Cid Corman's—"This Is Poetry"
over a Boston MA—radio station
I lived abt 12 miles—north of Boston
till I moved to Berkeley—Aug 31 '78
a couple of miles—from my brother
got me into Dr Williams—and Pound
and Stevens—and Hart Crane
my idea of poetry—picked up
from public school—teachers to my
house after—I had 2-1/2 yrs
Mass. Hospital School—south of Boston
5th-7th grades—then correspondence
courses—from the U.. of Chicago
was limited enough—thinking rhyme
or at least meter—as essential
or must
although at same time—curious about
what "free verse" (vers libre)—really was

“there was some or after all more than a little of it in the high school/college textbook which my brother, a college freshman then, brought home during his first Xmas vacation (yes, I did, sure), along with e.e. cummings' Selected Poems. Around then (December '49), before he returned to school, he happened on Corman's program and called me over to listen. Up through the '50s and '60s I'd keep on the lookout constantly for poems, trying to keep what came to me in my head if out in the car till I got to the typewriter, successfully, trying to extend what I got (if incomplete) once I started writing (like in school years, as I vaguely remember, I used to go around all day memorizing or remembering the lessons--school or anything was a vacation compared to physiotherapy, frustrating and sometimes scary as it was). I recall the idea of the set or assigned (like in school) poem, of writing about a certain thing or subject, and at any moment (all times) there's the attempt, difficult or easy or taking only a millisecond, say, immediately done with; but if you can't do it, sometime's there'll be something else”

so the poem—does become
a thought process—or arc
or course of thought—trace
artifact of the same—maybe
more than—just a machine made of words…



"It was a bright cold day
in April, and the clocks
were striking thirteen."
—George Orwell, 1884

Actually, my dears—
I prefer the 1956 version of 1984
With Edmond O’Brien as Winston Smith
And slutty sultry Jan Sterling as Julia his lover—
Imbuing the film with her “Fallen Angel” hauntiness
And “Ace in the Hole” ennui & sullen beauty…

Michael Redford sulks as General O’Conner—
Donald Pleasance adding the usual gay angle as Parsons,
While In the newer version directed by Michael Anderson…

Burnt-out Miss Richard Burton—
Making her appearance fresh from her gay
Staircase to Heaven drag act—still giddy & flamboyant
After her breathtakingly campy tango with Sexy Rexy,
Full of her usual deep Welch depressingly rich sonorities,
Droning away, as usual, her crummy cold war camp…

Playing it up as she always does—
With her sophisticated sardonic ironic candor
Doing her “The Spy Who Swished in From the Cold” skit,
Little plot twists with dumpy Miss Orwell’s snarky Theme,
Giving the Nightmarish Storyline a tinsey-wensey tiny-bit
More modern campy Melodrama to keep the dreary
Dystopian Drag routine going for awhile longer…

Actually tho, my dears, am I too gauche saying—
Isn’t Orwell’s premise a retro sci-fi flight of fantasy—
His world of 1948 looking into a neo Fifties Future?
Isn’t that how Film & Fiction work? Gazing back then
Thru a kind of fuzzy film noir Bijou ‘50s glass darkly?

A kind of medieval morality play—
For our hip slick so-so 21st century postmodern age?
Garishly displaying like a tacky paperback novel's cover—
The same old musty, well-worn & endlessly-thumbed thru
Dog-eared comic book spiel?

Cheer up tho, my fellow astute cineastes—
There’s plenty of time, my dears & at least a 5-minute
Intermission, giving us couch-potatoes some wiggle-room
For one more Hollywood version to spawn—all the way from
Netflix to John Hurt’s Alien & Lynch’s Mulholland Drive…

The same old picked-over polemical push—
Toward you know what? One last new Oscar-winning
Version of adolescent America’s Gone Baby Boomer
“Vision Thing”? One last hangover ersatz future?
One last neocon version of Orwell’s 1984 & lovely
Arthur C. Clark’s ho-hum Childhood’s End?

Saturday, November 22, 2008

The Blob

The Blob (1958)

“Indescribable!... indestructible!... insatiable!!!”

Pulp fiction—paperback novels
Retro-Fifties—sci-fi movies
Ace—double novels
Adolescent—heart-throbbing sex
Snake Pit—Double Features
Saturday nights—my older sister
She could drive—the big DeSoto
She was 18—with her driver’s license
She had Donny—her cute boyfriend
Greasy ducktail—Elvis Presley type
Made me—go to the Granada
With the mob—of screaming girls
Just to see—Love Me Tender (1956)
Got turned on—by his swivel hips
His twisted smile—making me faint
Realizing then—I was going STH
Straight To Hell—down on my knees
Doreen was cute—my sister no dummy
She dated a lot—4 years older than me
She liked the hot stuff—Elvis the Pelvis boyz
Greasy ducktails—tight bluejeans
Rolled-up T-shirts—Camel cigarettes
Young greaser types—Jailhouse Rock (1957)
Skuzzy highschool dropouts—their smirky lips
Told to join the Marines—or end up in jail
Snarky cocky—juvenile delinquents
King Creole (1958)—lost weekends
Then Greyhound bus—outta town
G.I. Blues (1960)—one night stands
Doreen got them good—before they left
The Snake Pit Drive In—her skanky goodbye
She took me along—back in the backseat
Kissing & smooching—until Intermission
Then I’d take over—where she left off
Doreen gone—to the bathroom
Tacky music—tinny hook-up speakers
Hanging down—from the windows
All steamed up—Doreen’s date hot
Leaning back—smoking his cigarette
Sipping his Coors—wanting to get off
Doreen telling him—“Denise” would do him
While she—powdered her nose
Gossiping with her girlfriends—sipping Cokes
The countdown clock—up on the screen
Ticking the time away—a 10 minute quickie
Me snorkeling down deep—into hot pubes
Finishing him off—just in time…
For the second feature—The Blob!!!

Friday, November 21, 2008

Larry Eigner

LARRY EIGNER (1927-1996)

"search the
spontaneous thing”
—Larry Eigner, “The Fine Life,”
On My Eyes

“the test of projectivism’s
commitment to voice must
be the poetry of Larry Eigner”
—Ron Silliman, “Afterword,”
Close Listening

“riveted by the uncanny
democracy of details”
—Charles Bernstein
“Again Eigner,” My Way:
Speeches and Poems

I was reading Eigner last night—
A root canal throbbing in my head.
Nothing like pain & pain-killers to get
Your mind off the mind-body connection.
Even when the pain is masked—
It’s still there lurking inside you…

Eigner all tangled up in his body—
A severe case of cerebral palsy…
Struggling with each letter to get it
Typed on a piece of paper & read by
Somebody else with it projected on
A screen for the audience to follow…

Projecting himself more like Duncan—
Than Olson’s Black Mountain breath
Not with a “force field” but more with
A “text field” like “Often I am Permitted”
Folding over the landscape with a new
Postmodern secondary orality…

Doing it yrself in a new way—
Laboring like a craftsman to produce a
“Cliché-free” innovation for his
Handicapped poetics limited by
The cerebral palsy paralyzing him…
A disabled poet wanting to be free.

Creeley says “Speech / is a mouth”—
But for Eigner poetry / is a pair of ears.
That’s all that was left after a botched
Forceps delivery: recalcitrant silences
And a neurological condition mediating
All aspects of Eigner’s life…

Eigner’s LangPo rejection of sentences—
Ditching the dominant ableist rhetoric,
Suppressing predication and syntactic
Closure, performing text without center,
Noun phrases more mobile & a function
Of alternate indeterminate syntax…

Each Eigner poem a confused harbor—
“when you search the / spontaneous thing”
His whole world wanting to be serious…
But how can it in a future where the parts
Can never be a whole and sparrows are
Always disappearing in a slope of dirt?

How can there be anything spontaneous—
When your whole body is one big limp
Subordinate clause, shutting out the world,
Each movement paratactic & spastic, each
Struggling word on paper paraphrasable
Down to each idiotic break & spacing?

How can you “do it yrself” when—
“belief / shuts the air // like the whole
world,” trying to make sense of it, trying
to make a coherent reading of an entire
poem when it’s impossible even to reach
out sometimes & touch the keyboard?

The modernist sense of collage—
Ends up how Eigner pushes poetry to the
Limits, giving us the pleasure of the text
As Roland Barthes would say, just enough
To make the fine line between continuity &
Discontinuity a pleasurable reading…

Not just one perception immediately—
Following another but more like barely
Just one word or phrase broken down by
A broken body frustrated with language
We can never know yet he does it himself
Better than Charles Olson or Edward Dorn…

More like Karlheinz Stockhausen—
Radically altering musical thinking
Into a series of “moment forms” &
Present moments full of disruptive
Stretches of discontinuous words
Centered on “Do it yrself…”

What happens when it opens up—
When parataxis rules rather than the
Usual grammatical cohesion and
Typography and cognitive glue
Sticking things together to create
Perspective & illusionistic space?

Sitting in his glassed-in porch—
Eigner takes discrete fragmented
Snapshots focusing on things with
Lack of grammatical closure and
Syntactic cohesion destabilizing
Crane & Williams’ lyrical voice.

The view from the porch opens up—
The Black Mountain poetic as a
Simple “Composition by Field” with
Its arrangement of disconnected
Snapshots, flashbacks, observations,
Quotations embracing a front lawn.

Clipped & manicured like the lawn—
What could be so simple or more
Complicated than such constellations
Of stars, cars, boys, neighbors and
Sidewalks self-sustaining and free
And unconcerned with you or me?

A different mode of mobility—
Helps the “shut-in” disabled poet
Type interrelated spaces, pages, rooms,
Weather & cityscape into poetry after
Cryosurgery centers the index finger of
His right hand into Swampscott muse…

When, wandering, Eigner looked up—
The fresh air, the clarity of the shore,
Its shadows, mostly, brilliant summer,
Saying nothing to himself, language
Not a luxury but rather a disjunctive
Necessity of being a disabled poet?

What sustaining air buoys him—
Time standing still for dark swimmers,
The wind like an ocean, naked seas
Each a different dream, all stinking
Fresh like the awkward neighbor boy
Taller than the cars along the street?

That letter Eigner wrote to Duncan—
“You don’t realize how mature you
Get when you’re a spastic 21 year-old
Virgin, I can’t look back like you,
Nothing you’ve done is like this body
Of mine like a fish constantly hooked…”

“No flake diamonds of the sea—
The somehow disfiguring weeds
And smells of damp boyhood that
Clog up the usual queenly sewage,
The newspulp breathing in & out,
The knuckled murk of dirty shorts…”

Snow on the neighborhood—
Phonepoles, flagpoles, windowsills,
A spiderweb hitched to the dictionary,
Open garage doors into blackness,
The backyard angling out, just a
Bunch of plain ordinary objects…

“I’ve felt it like you said—
There’s nothing more to say, Robert,
There’s lots to talk about but the
The words are just words for me,
When you talk about Jesse I end up
An animal noise not a man’s cry.”

“I can’t go there or see backwards—
the crickets know the evening and
I know the silence of being hungry,
The elm trees line the boulevard
And between the branches the
Stars shine down on rotten fish…”

“Is it serious or merely funny—
The miasma of art, seeing all the
Levels of the world, seniors in wigs,
Alone in old stone mansions, all
The people, the cars, the subways,
The planes, constant ephemerals…”

“They nod at me & I agree—
It’s rather nice being in an important
Postmodern anthology, times passes,
The pages yellow, the words like leaves
Stack up on the sidewalks, even the
Curb seems to shrug goodbye…”

“A gone world by any other name—
clouds up like any winter or summer
day, a broken hinge on the garage
door still holds, the green lawn sleeps,
the sprinkler turns around & around,
as I struggle to touch the keyboard…”

“things could be worse I suppose—
falling in love & getting kicked out of
bed, unrequited love for somebody &
all the comic imagery involved, how
much time wasted on what lovers do,
but then how would I know?”

Sunlight sucking shadows blind—
Morning afternoon evening sitting
Here typing twisting reading what
Other poets have to say, missing
Out on something though…

Here I am in Swampscott MA—
Listening to Cid Corman on the
Radio WMEX in Boston then later
Creeley Olson Blackburn a vast
Collage of haiku chunks, sound
Bytes, found poetry airwaves…

Here I am enjambing myself—
Separating & isolating myself with
The radio turned off but still the
Inward performance of reading
Writing parenthetically to myself,
Teaching myself to listen poetically.

Learning to “do it yrself” isn’t easy—
Letting conversations bleed into each
Other casually like a Red Sox game,
A gangly kid coming down the street,
The neighbors talking to each other,
I’m into “trinaural listening” now…

Fragmented language bleeds—
Gets more complicated than clouds
Or stars, networks of unconnected
Clauses & phrases makes listening
And hearing unfocused and cubist
Like a painting by Picasso…

Different kinds of aural passages—
A more radical sense of radiophonic
Contingency, bits of a story, incomplete
Connections, interviews half overheard,
Interrupted by noises, snippets of gone
Voices out of context, me listening…

Poetry as last-ditch prosthetic device—
Empowering me to get out of the closet
And test my commitment to the disability
Body politic which approximates my own
Speech, hesitant, laborious, one letter
At a time on a manual keyboard…

I project my palsied body into space—
See how cleverly I critique my crippled self
Typographically with these little graphic
Marks on a page of paper, representing
My refusal to be a disabled poet, finding
Power in the musculature of written words?

What is the nature of this writing—
This inward performance of a man who
Can’t perform a declarative sentence,
Who can’t speak words like normal poets
Speak, give readings, give book-signing
Parties in Barnes & Noble literary soirees?

Now & then I do it myself—
They turn on the radio for me and I
Listen to a Red Sox game, the cars
Line the streets, the lawns are green,
I’ve got this trinaural hearing thing,
Listen to my mind cleave yours…

Tuesday, November 18, 2008

Lucien Carr

Lucien Carr

Phillip Tourian

“the buzzer rang”
—Jack Kerouac & William Burroughs
And the Hippos Were Boiled in
Their Tanks (2008)


pale slim—curly black hair

green eyes—lanky legs

the kind of—dirty young adonis

literary fags—croon after

you know—“oh yorkshire lad!!!”

oh!!!—honey-tongued greek god!”

all the usual—queer soliloquies

dirty slacks—bedroom eyes

sleeves rolled up—nice big biceps

a hot guy—worth dying for

Monday, November 17, 2008

Burroughs in Kansas


“I am forced to the appalling
conclusion that I would never
have become a writer but for
Joan's death…”
—William Burroughs,
Queer, Penguin, 1985
page xxiii

the same with—dave kammerer
i met him when i was 11—he was 25
he was love with me—wouldn’t leave me alone
you know how fags are—they get some
then they want it—all the time
eight years—4 prep schools later
he’s still—putting the make on me
i run away to nyc—trying to get away
even with my girlfriend—he’s still wants it
sometimes i’m vulnerable—i let him do me
finally in riverside park—something snapped
i killed him—rolled him into the hudson
bill killed joan—i killed kammerer
it was pretty shitty—seedy, hardly artsy
later ginsberg blew it up—like he blew me
for every rimbaud—there’s a dozen fag verlaines
for every cute slacker—there’s a howl or two
ginsberg had no shame—sf was his stage
dedicated his queer poem—to his lovers
kerouac, cassady—burroughs & me
i asked him to please—erase my name
lucien carr—recently promoted to
night bureau manager—ny unitied press”
after doing time—all i wanted was privacy
i realized then—and ever since how
death motivates—and forumulates
what i write—and how i write it
what if rimbaud—murdered verlaine
he’d be the one—in prison not verlaine
verlaine & kammerer—jealous queens
aiming the pistol—at rimbaud’s groin
pulling the trigger—hitting him in the wrist
young arthur covering it—with both hands
sooner or later—jealous kammerer
he’d do me in—just like miss verlaine
that night by the river—I killed him instead
i live with this thought—it possesses me
i need to escape it—its nightmare control
killing kammerer—even tho he was queer
made me feel—doublly invaded
it was me—the ugly spirit was me
the invader—a life long struggle
the only way out—to write myself out
there was no choice—each day i escaped
writing was the way out—not the way in

In a letter from Lucien Carr, in NYC, to Allen Ginsberg, Berkeley CA, Sept 21, 1956: “As you might expect I have one small gripe. I was touched by being included in your dedication. But I value a certain anonymity in life and it always jars me when my friends, of all people, find it desirable to include mention of me in their works—dedication page as well as text. It’s a small matter. The book is impressive. Lucien.”—Allen Ginsberg, Howl: 50th Anniversary Edition, ed. Barry Miles, NY: Harper, 1986, 159

Saturday, November 15, 2008

Silence of the Lambs

Silence of the Lambs (1991)

“At the beginning of the last decade
Of the 20th century most genre pundits
Have already buried the gore film.”
—Chas Balum, More Gore Score:
Brave New Horrors

How discrete & polite—
Jody Foster in Silence of the Lambs
Getting spluged in the head…
With spunk rather than splatter

How cumly, clean & elegant—
Hannibal Lecter’s movie etiquette
Replaced by endless Hollywood
Streams of crummy Teen Kill epics…

Stupid boring Alien rip-offs—
Serial killer scummy splatter flicks…
Gone the days of Romero watching
Zombie monster flicks until I puked

Night of the Living Dead decades—
They’re coming to get you, Barbara!!!
Nixon, Johnson, Reagan & Hannibal
The gore Film Party continues!!!

I still wear Evian skin cream—
Sometimes I wear L'Air du Temps
But tonight I’m not Clarice Starling
I’m more into Barracuda Diva Drag…


"Spluge": to ejaculate

“I just spluged all over my hand,
my girlfriend will come lick it off!”
—Urban Dictionary

Friday, November 14, 2008

Burroughs in Kansas

Burroughs in Kansas #2

“The old writer lived
in a boxcar by the river”
—William Burroughs,
The Western Lands

often—in the morning
i lie—in bed watching
grids—laptop winds
moving—in front of my eyes
shifting—as i read them
trying—correcting them
copying—writing them down
waking up—wishing i could
remember—but can’t
yes—then what?

“…he hummed the
refrain from “Dead
Man Blues” by Jelly
Roll Morton”
—William Burroughs,
The Western Lands

after i wrote—my first novel
i started—a second one
but disgust—with words
built up—within me
like arsenic—lead
so i stopped—and listened
putting out—trout lines
catfish—canned beans
cheap whiskey—welfare checks
the usual—writer’s life

“Forty years ago the writer
had published a novel which
had made a stir and a few
short stories and some poems”
—William Burroughs,
The Western Lands

most of the time—i sat
on a little porch—screened in
looking out—over the river
an old 12 gauge—double barrel
shotgun—across my knees
a snub-nosed—revolver
kept—under my pillow
keeping track—so what

“One morning, instead
of typewritten words, he
saw handwritten words
and tried to read them”
—William Burroughs,
The Western Lands

the notes—on cardboard
little phrases—torn away
“the fate of—others”
some—on brown paper
“well—almost never”
giving me—the idea of a
dummy—ventriloquist act
words—to play with.

“he put some paper
in the machine and
started to write”
—William Burroughs,
The Western Lands

old novelists—like stevenson
writing their way—out of dreams
such tenacity—so laudable
no spiritual—bankruptcy
just precise—inventories
showing words—as assets
letting them—write themselves
letting flows—and faults
flow—to writers’ markets
not shortchanging—the muse
not faking it—the work
dying & decaying—guests
landlords—of the midwest

Mars Attacks

Mars Attacks with Horrible Dog-Human Transplants

WASHINGTON—Gossip is gushing throughout the busy beltway this weekend—with the news concerning the latest Martian attack on humanity.

Stem-cell researchers banned from genetic engineering research were shocked to find out that Martian-Earthmen transplant experimentation has been going on for many years.

A bootleg youtube copy of a hair-raising Martian secret laboratory scene from an orbiting UFO has all the bloggers & slackers on the Internet gasping with disbelief over footage from a bloodcurdling shocking transhuman transplant scene up until now thought to be impossible.

The Sarah Palin-Chihuahua transplant film clip is so disgusting yet promising—that Senator McCain has volunteered to be the first politician (that we know of) to undergo the somewhat risky Martian transplantation process so that he can truly become the Pit Bull he’s always wanted to be.

Other volunteers are flooding the Space Command Headquarters in Hump Tulips, WA with requests for Martian human-animal transplants involving not only dogs but horses, elephants, weasels, favorite family pets.

Apparently, secret Martian Exo-transplantation experiments have been going on for quite some time. Especially in Rome, where rich randy Italian politicians have paid millions for a new lease on Family Life and out-of-this-world unique procreation pleasures…

Wednesday, November 12, 2008

Pan's Labyrinth

Pan's Labyrinth (2006)

“The bricklayer’s arms
are folded into a knot”
—Charles Bernstein,
“The Bricklayer’s Arms,”
Girly Man

to cleave—not to cleave
isn’t that—the question
whether—the poet
suffering—slings & arrows
one-way—street poetics
two-way—breton’s back alleys
three-way—our ruby slippers
clicking—the words together
composing ourselves—vertically
detouring—horizontally & smoothly
slanting down—diagonally derigeur
disjuncting—edgar allan poe’s jukebox
appropriating—mac low’s immediacy
slipstreaming—the sci-fi chancery
escaping—captive narratives
textually thru—susan howe & emily dickinson
word by word—in the stacks
rare book room—beinecke library
bookworming—gertrude & emily
tender buttons—lifting belly
line by line—palimpsest portraits
opening up—pandora’s

Monday, November 10, 2008

Burroughs in Kansas

Burroughs in Kansas

“He entered a Midwestern state
of grace when he moved to
Lawrence, settled in, and made
many friends.”

—Denise Low

Wichita Vortex Sutra—hit & run

Sweeping down thru—midwestern zones

Kansas plains—prairie towns

American gothic—nothingness

Ginsberg drives fast—that’s not

Kansas—stoic Kansas

Kansas isn’t—New York City

Kansas isn’t fast—it ain’t…

Kansas is—grim Midwest gothic

Kansas is—tall white grain elevators

Kansas is—William Holden’s sadness

Kansas is—Kim Novak’s boredom

Kansas is—William Inge’s Picnic

Kansas is—Splendor in the Grass

Kansas is—handsome Warren Beatty

Kansas is—Natalie Wood on her knees

Kansas is—Dust Bowl Depression Time

Kansas is—endless wheatfields in August

Kansas is—the Dodge City end of the line

Kansas is—Burroughs not budging…

Living and dying—in Lawrence, Kansas

Is the only way—to know resignation

To know death—to know High Noon

To shoot guns—to love cats

To live there—to die there

That’s the only way—to know Kansas

Six feet under—all the time

Stoic grim—gallows humor…

Saturday, November 8, 2008

Rua do Alecrim

Rua do Alecrim

“A man can go astray
even when he follows
a straight line.”
—José Saramago,
The Year of the Death
Of Ricardo Reis


the silky texture
of her sleeve

the warmth of her skin…

Lydia lowered her eyes

moved sideways
his hand

accompanied her

they remained like that

for a few seconds

now she departs

she will not regain

her composure

in a hurry…
labyrinths are like

Lisbon streets


blind alleys…


the Rua do Alecrim

up down left right

Vinte e Quatro de Julho

The unwindings

of the skeins

the web



even a man

with the sight of 2 eyes

needs a light

he can follow


watching the spectacle

of the world
call it





what Ricardo Reis


is a guide dog

a walking stick

a light


is a dark mist

north south east west

all merge




Ricardo Reis

falls headlong

to the bottom

a tailor’s dummy

a manikin

without legs just a head


Fernando Pessoa

is dead



returning from Rio

I walk down

Avenida da Liberdade

Both poets dead

Yet here I am

our portraits

in oval frames


watching the spectacle

of the world

I go astray

even when I follow

a straight line

entering Rossio

crossroads of

4 or 8 choices

taken and retraced

letting chance

guide me

driving me letting myself

be driven

by forces unknown

even if I knew

what would I know?


Pessoa the poet hoards his poems

journalists scratch their ass

critics publish rubbish

I tap the pavement

little is gained from

secondaire lit queans

Pessoa hoards his poems

unlike other geniuses

dot dot dot

I let myself

go astray

entering Rossio

letting Lisbon

guide me past

Freire the Engraver’s

shiny bronze nameplates

lawyers doctors notaries

important “compass” people

but poets?

nameplates deceive

so do

journalist & critic’s questions

poets reply with action

with action

we ask questions

such questions converge

our change is

thru our senses

poet questions

don’t require answers

heteronyms work better

just ask them all…

Friday, November 7, 2008



Spoiler Alert: Kinky Sci-Fi Sex

Actually Thomas Dekker as John Connor is kind of cute. John is Sarah's son and the future leader of the human resistance. He is only 15 years old at the beginning of the show, turning sixteen in the season one finale. As the series progresses, John struggles with his feelings for his mother Lena Headey as Sarah Connor.

Sarah is a major character in the Terminator series. She is the mother of John Connor, who will one day become the leader of the human resistance. She is portrayed as a whacko deranged fugitive by the authorities. Her incestuous love affair with her cute son doesn’t help matters.

The pilot episode is set in 1999 and introduces Sarah, her son John, and Cameron, a Terminator that has been re-programmed to love John. The Terminator and Sarah are always getting into bitch fights over cute moody well-endowed John Connor.

Based on the events of a forthcoming Terminator: Out of the Closet, Sarah gets romantically involved with a skanky Alaskan politician named Charlene Barracuda, but ends her relationship with her to stay on the run. During the pilot, Sarah, John, Charlene Barracuda and the faggot robot Cameron carry on a “three-way” in various dumpy LA apartments. The National Enquirer is always full of smarmy snarky gossip about the new movie being filmed in lovely corn-hole red state Republican Lincoln, Nebraska.

Seeing how John is frustrated with their lewd transgressive lifestyle of running, sucking and fornicating, Sarah resolves to go on the offensive against any further sick robotic sex. Instead, they’ll stick to the usual kinky incestuous mother-son casual sex—like the first two Terminator movies.

This last season’s eposdic sci-fi sexcapade was so popular that a made-for-TV movie is now in the “offing,” centered around the QGLBT resistance movement that has been sent back from the queer future to save the day.

Queer Terminator 2012 stars a butchy gang of diesel dykes on bykes who are fighters from the year 2069. Everybody is seeking out an intuitive chess computer called The Woman in Red who may be a precursor to Skynet.

The Woman in Red lurks around LA nightclubs in exquisite drag, stylish in her Valentino red sequin two-piece ensemble with high heels. She enjoys showing a little leg now & then to John Connor which of course upsets his possessive whacko mother.

Sarah Connor gets help from the diesel dykes when it comes to disciplining truant moody sullen John Connor who actually gets off on cyborg S & M sex—as well as heavy-duty Bondage & Deliverance sessions.

Drive In Movies


The Creature From the Black Lagoon (1954)

“I'm livin' in shame”
—The Supremes,
“I’m Living in Shame”

Shame is like a rose—a deep dark red blushing rose—yes Shame is like a rose—you know like Gertrude Stein’s rose—the Rose that’s a Rose that’s a Rose—and that Rose was my Rose all the way—the Rose that was a Rose that was a Rose—that’s the way it is with Roses—and that’s the way it is with Shame—there’s many kinds of Shame—as many kinds of Shame as there are shades of Red—shades of moody Mauve—shades of Lipstick Scarlet—shades of pouty Puce—shades of ravishing Ruby—all the shades of blushing shameless Shame—the kind of Shame you get to eventually know so well—the kind of Shame that knows you better than you know myself…The kind of Shame that comes down out of the Shameless Drive In Night Sky—the kind of Shame that’s Moody & Ultra-Blue out there in the Sticks—the Shameless Angel of the Drive In Night—the Drive In Angel of Shame who gives you what you want—Descending from the Starry Night Sky your personal cute Monster of the Id—disguised as a Normal Human Being during the Day—but at Night turning into The Creature From the Black Lagoon—especially on Saturday Nights—during Double Creature Feature Movies—there at the Snake Pit Drive In…

I Married a Monster From Outer Space (1958)
“Ain't too proud to beg, sweet darlin—
Please don't leave me girl, don't you go”
—The Temptations,
“Aint Too Proud To Beg”

The shameless Shame that has no Face—the shameless Shame that has No Name—the shameless Shame that only Smirks—the shameless Shame that doesn’t waste any Time—the sullen Telepathic Shame that reads your Mind—the kind of lanky butch naked Shame you can’t help staring at during Intermission—eating your hot-dog & sipping your Orange Crush…The kind of Arrogant Shame that knocks at your window—the shameless Shame that has Power over you—the shameful Shame on your face—when he says his Girlfriend won’t put out—opening the door & getting in—making your knees weak as you slide down on your Master—getting him off in a Divine Intermission Quickie—the Angel of Shame teaching you what you already know—the shameless Angel of Shame—turning you into Who You Really Are…The Prince of Shame who’s Always There—like The Invisble Man—shameless Shiva of Shame—pulling back thru Time—all your pusillanimous Pastlives in a single gulp—the Deep Secret Scarlet Ruby Red Rose Bud that’s you to Bloom—the shy little Rosebud—that makes Orson Welles kick the Bucket—the kind of Shame always niggling in the back of your mind—your Chicken Innocence so full of prissy Pride—so Proud of yourself & full of Lies—so Hoity-Toity & above it all—until the Weekend comes around—and then
Summer and Smoke (1961)
“Stop! In the Name of Love—
Before you break my Heart!!!”
—The Supremes,
“Stop! In the Name of Love"
I’m like poor Alma in Summer and Smoke—poor Geraldine Page the nice innocent Minister’s daughter—in love with no-good Laurence Harvey the rude rowdy Playboy—along with Una Merkel always insidiously hovering around in the tacky background—hen-pecking me with my Closet Case guilt—haunting me & making me feel guilty about everything—until finally one lonely night in the Sunken Garden—Earl Holliman the young Traveling Salesman shows up—and then suddenly Alma doesn’t care anymore…It’s Shame she wants—and it’s shameless Shame she gets—beyond tacky Pride & prissy Prejudice—it’s pure unadulterated Shame she gets—that’s how Alma’s Angel of Shame treats her—simply shamelessly—and she loves it—it’s about Time her pulsating pussy says—as they both make up for Lost Time…Earl Holliman making Alma sigh & moan—making her Blush in Shame all night long—Deep down there under the fragrant Forsythia bushes—way down deep there in the dark Sunken Garden—deep down there in the Deep Dark Dingle—where the gushing rushing gurgling Fountain of Youth—shamelessly squirts, oozes & comes—deep inside Alma all the way…

Bijou Romance

B=I=J=O=U Romance

”The cinema seems to have
been invented to express the
subconscious life, whose roots
penetrate so deeply into poetry;
but it is almost never used for
that end.”
—Luis Buñuel,
“Cinema, Instrument of Poetry,”
The Shadow and Its Shadow:
Surrealist Writing on the Cinema

1. Autobiography = Filmography

2. BIJOU Filmography = postmodern deployment of one’s personality through Film.

3. BIJOU Filmography = transgressive, subversive, camp, kitschy, schmaltzy, lavender, mid-mauve, high-artifice, anti-mimetic, paratactic, cubo-serial, deconstructive denouement of SNARK Romance.

4. BIJOU Romance = Manuel Puig’s “Kiss of the Spider Woman,” Alberto Fuguet’s “The Movies of My Life,” Nathanael West’s “The Day of the Locusts,” Walker Percy’s “The Moviegoer,” John Berendt’s “Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil,” Christopher Bram’s “Father of Frankenstein,” Barry Gifford’s “Devil Thumbs a Ride,” Edward Field’s “Variety Photoplays” & Joe Brainard’s “I Remember.”


Summer and Smoke

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Bride of Frankenstein


“I have reinvented many things.
Other men, for example.”
—Paul Valery

ELSA LANCHESTER—I reclined leisurely on the cold metal operating table—trying to go back to sleep but I wasn’t able to—all I could do was stare up at the Laboratory ceiling—in the ancient stone Tower—that belonged to the family of Count Frankenstein for centuries—the knobs on my neck still warm from the shocking voltages of lightening—having surged through me thoroughly from the tips of my toes to my art deco wig—even down through my shocked pussy transplant—that dainty little piece of virgin hair-pie—that once belonged to the dearly beloved minister’s daughter—who unfortunately drown in the nearby lake under rather mysterious circumstances—much to the grief of the local citizenry—but much to glee & satisfaction of Doctor Pretorius—and Karl the dirty-minded humpback assistant—an awful incorrigible snatch-snatcher from way back when—my new-found stitched-together pussy—being the most familiar of all my new organs—the tender teenage transplant organ I felt the most rapport with—its anxious eager-beaver waiting repertoire only to ready to be brought back to life all the way once again—to be resuscitated & resurrected from damp cold Darkness—rescued from the Land of the Dead—and ratcheted up one cocky-click at a time—by some huge precocious young Transylvanian trick—with plenty of time & patient inches to spare—enough to make it all worth while—having been murdered, amputated, transplanted, then electrocuted & brought back to life as the most vital organ of all—the tight proud pouty pussy of Elsa Lanchester—The Bride of Frankenstein!!!

BORIS KARLOFF—How long I’ve waited—how long I’ve thought of my new wife and our Honeymoon tonight—how long have I dreamed of this moment—the aureate Re-making of Monster me—the Lucidity of making a good Lay—the birth of both of us in Count Frankenstein’s brain—the fusing of word & idea in Doctor Pretorius’ Will to Power—the moonlight slanting nectarine down thru the clarinet-slit windows of the Tower—one only has to look at my Bride to know how little she knows now—but how much she’ll learn after it’s all over—gentle diversions like the sound of the wind in the guitar wiring—the scudding clouds above the tall tilting turrets—where the kites keep calling my name—my love, my suffering, my insights into being human again—I’ll be her patient guide—plagiarizing the past, finding the essence of my romantic insanity, helping her to feel the intensity of at last being totally human—but more than human—helping her to be Superhuman—divorcing her from both Life and Death—letting it dominate us like it does with mere humans—so our all-too-human Love—eclipses the only peephole in the Tower door—the agility of our Imagination blocking all thought—even unattractive or unnecessary Thoughts—like the surrealistic chains & clattering trolleys—raising her upward through the high-pitched harmonics of contemporary static-electricity artistry—filling her with the electrifying brutality of new flesh out of Nothingness—taunted by the morbid hallucinatory flights of doves, winged horses, angels and albatrosses—held aloft up there in the Tower heights—the wind whispering like Michelangelo—the lightening speaking like Picasso—speaking thusly showing off lack of modesty as courage—the Lucidity of Mad Scientist ambitions…

ERNST THESIGER—Posing as Doctor Pretorius back then—was like learning a foreign language—somehow akin to speaking in Tongues—far from Mathematics—more fluid, less rigid, more unnoticed, more lost—experiencing not so much pain—as the difficulties such Superman feelings were bound to impose—on the fine stitch-work & surgery that held them together—the Creature & his beloved Bride—both creations of my artistic technique—a technique of ingenious gestures, Weimar intuition and primitive prehistoric Lascaux art—shedding all feelings for modern clichés—ramifying the melancholy idea of Monster Love—turning it loose on a decadent wasted world—my morbid intelligence thinking vast Armies of the Undead—probably a trivial thought to most—but to me it was an anticipated direction necessary & irrevocable—like migrant birds or fish—a function of coming home—declaring the whole world mine—down to the smallest baroque detail—neither verbose or restrained—no explanations would be necessary—nor would any be forthcoming—the Age of Innocence would be over—from this Superhuman couple merging light & darkness—love and hate—the world would be reborn anew—and the Frankenstein Dynasty would control the Planet!!!

COLIN CLIVE—I was weak, I was vulnerable, I was queer—Valerie Hobson knew my secret—Elizabeth von Frankenstein my all-knowing beloved wife—she tried to keep me to the narrow road of normalcy and the missionary position—but I had all these distractions to deal with—like Gavin Gordon playing that nelly Lord Byron and Douglas Walton camping it up as Percy Shelly—but even worse of course was Ernest Thesiger the terrible evil Dr. Pretorius—who knew my deepest secrets—who catered to my secret desires—and who promised me what my decadent heart truly desired—the relief in knowing there was somebody I could confide to—the horror of finding out that somebody would grant me my wishes—and yet at what a terrible price—my only thoughts being—“What was the Bride thinking now?”—was it the same thing I was thinking too—the Closet Case works from the inside out—but never gets out—partially because he can’t and partially because he doesn’t want to—so that in my mind & heart I was incapable of doing so—oh Lordy what more can I say than that—I’d been in the dark so long I’d believe anything Pretorius would tell me—especially at night when I was lonely—pacing the Laboratory in the lonely moonlight—until the bodies started being transported late at night—coming to the castle & then the Laboratory—from the hospital, the morgue, the crossroad gallows & the family crypts—Dwight Frye as Karl the busy Hunchback—nefariously looking the other way—humping his way in the gimpy twilight glow of torches—his head hanging down & his rump sticking up—while the dead bodies were cataloged & put on ice—their eyes dilated seemingly fond of being dead—Pretorius busy as usual—making order out of disorder—playing God amidst all the confusion—telling a tale to himself only he could tell—his pessimistic view of life—amused & disgusted with it—not afraid of switching things around—turning the Living into the Dead—and the Dead into the magnificent Living Undead of Transylvania…

ELSA LANCHESTER—The dead are dead & the living are living—how little did I expect to wake up & find myself between both worlds—the veil remains along with the rage and sorrow—the mortal tongue sewn in my speechless mouth—the mortal lips dark green & covered with a smile—the long episode of ghostly body parts & lost language—each of my organs sewn into my new Bride’s body—my youthful pussy once buried in a coffin of solid bronze—only to be disinterred that very night—still covered by roses and funeral conversations still lingering in my ears—to what degree can one lose one’s personality?—to what degree can one regain it back again after death?—I once was quite talkative but now I’ve become moody & silent—will I consistently remain so—am I being dishonest with myself in adopting this new role?—when I meet my new Undead Husband will I chatter loudly?—or will I fall silent & quiet by the Beauty of it all?—What a shock when I first heard his words—Boris’ voice was like curse—neither angry or loving but totally in pain—his tongue falling out on the floor—because the stitches came undone—the howl of hurt when his right Eye bulged out too much from ogling me—hanging halfway down his face still staring at me—there went the Romance I’d been expecting so dearly—there were the cuts & bruises only a Beast could have—shapeless like a sac of potatoes instead of daffodils—even the mirrors in the Lab cracking & splintering in pain—such passion went into the surgeon’s keen scalpel—why not manly Beauty & glowing Adonis sunsets the result?—instead of writhing ugly distorted limbs and misplaced organs with their own haughty Egocentricities—a tight ball of creature anxiety and blind energy going in different directions—he wasn’t a Man of Honor—I saw how Colin Clive lusted after him—the immortal forces tied together by Pretorius the Pervert—picking the most monstrously otherworldly-endowed Strangler & Murderer in town—to provide what should have been Love’s most tender and loving Artistic device—neglecting to think what a dainty young lady I was—unlike Baron Frankenstein who was such a louche lover—fond of horsy young men—the moral import of our Honeymoon that Never Was—the neglected loving Bridegroom who’d Never Be—I could feel all my jilted disappointed organs unlacing at the same time—some sliding like Jello down my legs, others popping out in shocked horror like an overstuffed vest—other organs slinking out of me like Mr. Slinky—slinking off the table, down the stairs & into the dark Transylvanian woods—shamelessly humbling me with a shocking End to my tacky Tribulations—uplifting knowing surely rejoining me with the dead flowers & crypt of my once-undeadness—the indelicate intellect of Boris Karloff going berserk—seeing the uncouth discombobulating Climax of his Bridegroom-to-be—so much for all of Pretorius’ promises of virgin, uncorrupted, perfect Love—with another lovely Creature of the Undead—both the Count & Herr Doctor Professor hiding in the dark corners of the Laboratory—fearing the worse—the rage of Frankenstein rumbling & seething—giving up on all his hopes—for divinely perfect Dystopian Love & Death-in-Life—reaching for the Lever on the wall—(“Not the Lever!!! Please Not the Lever!!!)—pulling it down & blowing up everything—the Tower, the Castle, the evil Dream of Frankenstein.