Craig Podmore

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7…All Good Children Go To Heaven

 

We dreamt of a dragon fucking us.

Breathing hellfire,

She sang Elvis songs,

I wore a Marilyn Monroe mask whilst

Shooting shadows into stagnant vein

Of a pulpy nothing.

Charlie Manson on the TV;

He is no longer flesh,

No longer a nightmare.

 

I ripped her panties off with a naked blade,

We wrote love letters to death in blood

On the bed sheets;

Eroticised by such absurdity.

Erectile homicide,

35mm orgy abuse for the famous meat –

 

Give birth to revolver.

Shoot. Smile. Bleed. Cry. Fuck. Die.

Her sex kills me like an outlaw

But we love it like Christ.

 

 

Anti-Depressant Cinephile Gunman

 

B-movie dildo abuser,

Snuff superstar intro;

 

Let’s relieve ourselves.

 

Praise the violence on screen,

Denounce the brutalism off-screen.

 

The villain on the camera is perfect.

The gunman, all too human is the error

 

Because we don’t want to be victims.

 

We see the auditorium butchery,

Thus vomiting of the ‘real’ –

Juxtaposed with the embrace of the reel.

 

Target practice – target audience.

 

XXX theatre of wounds,

A sell out crowd

Singing Shakespearean death quotes

In the viscera of celluloid tombs.

 

Such a performance will not be welcomed on a red carpet

But it will make the cover of magazines

Because it’s another screen,

A new fiction – a modern obscene.