Craig Podmore-

 Screen

It’s not a mirror.

Nor

Is it art,

Just celluloid,

Trivial, menial diets

Of cutting life into scenes,

Edited, primed and methodically

Structured like murder.

It’s a seismic process of conjuring compositions

Irrelevant to the mundane prescriptions of life.

The screen is xenophobic. Almost, totalitarian.

Jungian dualities in the vain of stimuli –

Victims sat bandaged before the canvas of a moving image,

Their interval requires an oxygen mask and a refill of their intravenous drip.

The projection eliminates fear, perhaps develops a psychosis of delusional cruelties that become a replication of the visual act. Sexualities are awakened,

Genitals ruptured to the impossible beauty of the sirens that win the hearts of

The Proletariat boys and girls. The depression of reality diluted by the Omnipotent stars of the show. The screen is not a screen but an altar to deter

The scars of personal heresies. The dark. The spotlight. Such an abyss! The Puddle of dreams within a frame, singing, dancing, crying and aching

Until,

The cameraman turns and seeks the man with a gun in a shopping mall,

The offender will shoot and kill innocent lives and it will be recorded.

The screen decays into a scapegoat, a devil even.

Everybody will blame the television,

The screen and not the fingers that pulled the trigger.

Reality TV is the hearse of our abundant crapulence.

It is anthropologically backward,

De-evolution,

Desensitisation:

“I wanna shoot that guy down just like Robert De Niro in Taxi Driver.”

It’s not a mirror.

Nor

Is it art.

 

Judas Boulevard

Concrete stars of

Cancer;

Cast of runaway regrets

And a stage for

Iwo Jima vets.

Eva Braun divas

On sets of

Aryan shores of

Cyanide;

Deluding the plastic

Divide.

Cruel thespians

Of hate:

Prosy and pernicious

Towards all

Christian pornographers.

The phallic lens

That ejaculates you

To fame;

Sinner celluloid

Perpetrate guillotine

Scenes of maimed

Damsels in godlessness.

Car-crash-Dean-obscene

Through wombs of blitz and glamour –

Queen Mary of Mansfield;

Medium wide shot of her

Own ‘death show’,

Live for the Tinseltown

Hyenas.

Sappho, Dido, Monroe,

Sit in the front row

For anti-septic rapes

Of political pillage.

“Happy Birthday Mr President”

Intercut with genocide,

The atomic bomb, Dachau,

Mao, Stalin, Pearl Harbour,

Dildos, Pro-life, Jim Jones,

The Somme, the Alamo,

The emperor Nero,

Proletariat zero, the man,

The ape, Manila massacre

And the ever-increasing

Tax rates.

(Jump cuts back to bourgeois ignorance)

The hidden clip found in Oswald’s rifle:

“Happy Birthday my beautiful liars.”

Behind the red curtains

Hung on abattoir meat hooks

There lies this Judas Boulevard;

A long road of despair and

Of insolent butchery –

A studio of narcissistic fucks.

Thus Spoke Tinseltown

Star names erased on the boulevard,

Replaced by the likes of Schopenhauer, Mao, Jung, Goebbels and Kierkegaard.

The Hollywood sign torn down,

Instead, A Christian temple as great as the White House stands before beautiful Tinseltown.

Guts in animal fur, seizures of the aesthetic profoundly

Foam at the mouths as dead liberals contort in a macabre dance;

A vomiting parade, a syphilis extravagance of a burning economy.

Nothing to exist but flesh that is striving to excess,

Although, that excess is in fact their blind desire to suffer,

Such suffering becomes knowledge, such death-defining truths

As the mob of fundamental destruction film each other

For the voyeurism of the masses.

Only to find that the films become that of a ‘snuff’ movie,

The hangings, the shootings, stabbings, rapes and mass murder –

Alas! Becomes the reel of ‘real’ under the veneer of fame;

Nothing to blame but the animal and the detrimental intellect.

Wagner concertos play to the empty streets of Hollywood

As its stomach rumbles and begins to eat itself like

The Aryan philosophy that it is.