I am Stan Brakhage.
And I say bite. And what to make
of a dry spell. The body under
it’s yellows. Strapped to the old
corner, surrounded by glittering
verifications.
What do past deserve. As halved.
The automatic. An animator like
Walt Disney. During the more British
months, frames with tension and rad-
iates so you can feel. Saying so like
you aught to know. An elephant can’t
dance, dummy. The news of Q-Tips
told the wrong way, at the wrong time
being the wrong news, being a sore point.
I’ll ask beside it. Plots me. Do not like,
a little, get screwed. And dramatic. Bring
me the I can spell you faster than that one
can. Eating worked because it was a
catered event. You seems you can’t look at
the wall covered darker than taken for Powell.
He was no movie tycoon. But mutually beneficial.
Should I act? Whether or not I’d get the part?
As long as the tax stays in place, we’ll reach under
our known film war raged. And a backlog of immediate
American titles left waiting in the wings.
I had like him pictures of him looking the same as
him and how he looked usually, most days, dressed
up like him and how he would dress, in various styles
and fashions, like he always does, never settling exactly
on what he wants to look like, how he looked in looking
so looking back, so striking, the object we’ve gotten to
know. That’s how the pictures of him look to me know.
In the film, we have no access to his inner thoughts.
His plan to confront his usual onscreen suit. This along
with everything we stopped learning.
We gave up from complicated
really tatters,
and this basic consumption
that we bellow out and belch.
Six miles south and we could be
new again. All over his leading man.
And, in an interesting footnote, he
could not curtail his eventual decline.
This is breathing of old and how and
the image of moths. What lacks surprise
and the ideas of the sun. In his hotel room.
With apparently this Russian who takes
possession of self-loathing and the way
he played the part. Visits that makes words
would. Geometry of expression that has
not yet proved to be a bad omen. You can
almost imagine him here, softly smoking his
cigars, and sipping vodka, getting cold feet.
But that’s his problem.
My bringing my star back. That’s starlighting.
Further back in the romantic imagination that
produced the classic fairy tale. A lost generation
that people generally find sometime in their teens.
Casual pages, stolen, so that there are stories
that link to the psychological for no reason other
than figures of fantasy and eerie sit in your belly.
the brain that your body is.
Harsh punishments for innocent
transgressions. Before they find
peace in Heaven. Gloomy descent
that it is, we’re all post-Freudians
now.
Some days, taken up by a taken down
old lady, the unstoppable execution can’t
reconcile the cutting of a tail
in two.
And world here where children,
and that too shall pass. Doesn’t
translate into two dogmatic masculine
projections of desire, as such,
sleep-walking and communicating
through the naked man,
found in the morning,
sleeping on the couch.
There are many definitions to doors.
Revolving doors, making more meanings
than are really possible to ever contain.
The edges of the frame, always somehow
outside of vision.
One of the last scenes to be filmed:
The house of blocks, coffee, crumpets
with jam and the absolute right. The
examination of humor as not that funny,
not very funny at all. The image of that
old stink I’d made, the lion in the grass,
and the Zebra I had made my Zelda.
