Archives for posts with tag: film

it does not matter
how you are perceived
it is
how you perceive yourself

we are conditioned
meat sacks
from birth
society, friends,
family and foes
pound us out
drive us
into pre-cut molds
and
set us
out to dry

Walt Disney and Herr Hitler
both loved the cinema
both shared
visions of conformity
and knew
that in some small way
God
was in the details
and the dovetails

whereas Annie Sprinkle,
suitcase handle in hand
(I would suggest)
knows that beauty
is in truth
that sexuality
is per formative
beauty
a series of illusions

and always
in the eye
of the beholder

I now know
what these film makers know

it is nothing
to become a man
or a woman

but
to be a good person
makes
you immortal

For Robert Eads

Linda/Les & Annie – The First Female to Male Transsexual Love Story, Annie Sprinkle, Albert Jacoma & Jonny Armstong, 1989

Michael Dennis
http://michaeldennispoet.blogspot.ca

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what no one ever seems to talk about
when the Peckinpah gore settles
is that Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid
is a good old fashioned love story

Sheriff Garrett loves Billy
so much
he has to kill him
to prove it

and Billy,
sweet as he is
loves Garrett
right back

enough to let him
put a bullet
at the full stop
of his ending
(as the suicidal Mayakovsky
might have said)

the naked Rita Coolidge
and the various
unnamed
and unclothed Mexican whores
might confuse
the gender issues
for a second

may even alter
the gaze
of the viewer

but Billy,
barefoot and tender
is the object
of Garrett’s
desire…

and in another movie,
in Cowboy Berlin
neither Lola or Bilidikid
can perform themselves
beyond the reality
of the gender
they exhibit

they are
as doomed
as gunslingers
who
cannot adapt

they are
the old world
spun to the edges
weighed down
by a gender politic
they cannot outdraw

but in the fading sunset
there is hope

a man can have emotion
and masculinity
Lola’s optimistic and resourceful friend
intones
“I am a woman with balls”
and the friendly taxi driver
smiles
in bemused flirtation

somewhere else
Billy Wilder turns over
in his grave, giggles
remembers Jack Lemon
on the water
with Joe Brown
turns over again
and returns
to the eternally peaceful slumber
we wish on all our heroes

Lola and Bilidikid, Kutlug Ataman, 1998
Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid, Sam Peckinpah, 1973

Michael Dennis
http://michaeldennispoet.blogspot.ca

to some eyes
in some minds
the sight
of David Bowie
marching
through
culture
gender
and war

to kiss
Ryuichi Sakamato
was no less
incendiary
than the flash
over Hiroshima
the roar
over Nagasaki

a thousand cranes
blushed
Yukio Mishima rethought his past

this small kiss
shifting tides

Merry Christmas, Mr. Laurence, Nagisa Oshima, 1983

Michael Dennis
http://michaeldennispoet.blogspot.ca

(this dialogue was taken, verbatim from the film Powertool)

suck that cock
suck that cock
suck that big cock

lick my ass
rim my ass
stick your tongue in there

let me fuck your ass
it feels so good
you love it don’t you?

you love it bitch
it feels good
oh yea, oh yea

let me fuck your ass you fagot
let me fuck your ass you jail house fagot
let me fuck your ass

I’m fucking your ass
you love it don’t you bitch?
I’m gonna cum

it was Susan Bordo’s “fully erect penis”
in John Travis’ prison for men

masculinity is not about gender
the man lunching on tube steak
as though it contained
the cure for cancer and a key to freedom
is a passively willing catcher
passive being his position
to the active thrust of his lover
active being his role

both men just players
while a prison cell away
the legendary Jeff Stryker
lowers his gaze
their pleasure but entertainment
for his

as Mr. Stryker
strokes his own object
is captured
by that other gaze

the one
from
every boy
in town

Powertool: 10th Anniversary, John Travis, 1986

Michael Dennis
http://michaeldennispoet.blogspot.ca

for Phillip Seymour Hoffman

there are those for whom life is solid
those whom life presumes
those who are life’s refuse
those who are simply confused

the steps we take are sometimes written
sometimes happen by chance
but few are admitted
to the wonder of the dance

for Phillip Seymour Hoffman

in the middle of the greatest city on earth
there is a park
and in the middle of the park
there is a theatre
where the players
mimic life and death

we pay attention
because life is what we want
what we live for
and in our darkest dreams
fear, and in them, the actors
it is writ so plain

today, the war on drugs
claimed another victim
another victim,
convicted and executed
because no one could
forget the drug,
forgive the drug,
love the drug — to death

instead, the great actor, plays the part —
once again, life mimics art —

too bad no one told the lead

when the great actor died
he floated over the world
and sprinkled pixie dust
so people would never forget
dreams come true
dreams are all that are true

the only way to love the world
is to have someone who doesn’t
know they love you
sew your shadow onto your heels

to prompt you,
there’s no need to fly

How could such a serious man be so funny?
The Wittgenstein of laughter, he bared the bones of funny
and examined them with the truth in his mind and
whiskey as witness to his soul.

Dancing with the skeleton had him banned in several states,
but he wanted to do it—no one could dissuade him.

He loved bridge,
tricks,
somersaults,
paused moments,
where everything coalesced into an instant
(not a whole),
a start perfectly prescribed
whose dissolution was a recipe
served on roller skates—
immediately.

He rode the rails
over the valley of laughter—
the angel that foretells
the coming of the end,
the transformation coming round the bend,
the clown in the wilderness—
the new kid in town.

The clown does Shakespeare
and we laugh.

Hidden waif, tortured reader,
stolen son, serious child,

why do we howl when you misbehave,
cry, when you are kind?

We are all joined in this threadbare costume-
I can live without you, father, but must seek butter,
at least one mutt, or another; I steal without
you, mother, though I never cease to seek you.

I, the child who was no child still playing a child of the wild.
I, the wild found in the child, the child in you and me.
I, the man, chased through mirrors of cost, flight and possession.
I fly, you watch, I wait at the doorstep for you to arrive;
I cross the threshold, step on a loose board, stagger, roof sags,
symphony patiently waits for me to arise, you hold your breath,
a cymbal crash as it falls on my head; it’s so much like life,

that’s what you will say as you leave the theatre,

and the band plays on.

You will always remember me,
the words you never heard.
You will laugh as I sing
my silent song, dance it on your plate
with the food of my sorrow,
look at you with a love that knows you
won’t love back. But, I will love you
and I will always smile, my eyes twinkle for you,
plain as the moustache painted on my face.

 

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