cinema.
The camera is androgynous machine, a kind of mechanical hermaphrodite.
In his retort the alchemist repeats the work of Nature.
Few would defend a small view of Alchemy as «Mother of Chemistry», and
confuse its true goal with those external metal arts. Alchemy is an erotic
science, involved in buried aspects of reality, aimed at purifying and
transforming all being and matter. Not to suggest that material operations are
ever abandoned. The adept holds to both the mystical and physical work.
The alchemists detect in the sexual activity of man a correspondence with the
world's creation, with the growth of plants, and with mineral formations.
When they see the union of rain and earth, they see it in an erotic sense, as
copulation. And this extends to all natural realms of matter. For they can
picture love affairs of chemicals and stars, a romance of stones, or the fertility
of fire.
Strange, fertile correspondences the alchemists sensed in unlikely orders of
being. Between men and planets, plants and gestures, words and weather.
These disturbing connections: an infant's cry and the stroke of silk; the whorl
of an ear and an appearance of dogs in the yard; a woman's head lowered in
sleep and the morning dance of cannibals; these are conjunctions which
transcend the sterile signal of any «willed» montage. These juxtapositions of
objects, sounds, actions, colors, weapons, wounds, and odors shine in an
unheard — of way, impossible ways.
Film is nothing when not an illumination of this chain of being which makes
a needle poised in flesh call up explosions in a foreign capital.
Cinema returns us to anima, religion of matter, which gives each thing its
special divinity and sees gods in all things and beings.
Cinema, heir of alchemy, last of an erotic science.
Surround Emperor of Body.
Bali Bali dancers
Will not break my temple.
Explorers
Suck eyes into the head.
The rosy body cross
secret in flow
controls its flow.
Wrestlers
in body weights dance
and music, mimesis, body.
Swimmers
entertain embryo
sweet dangerous thrust flow.
The Lords. Events take place beyond our knowledge or control. Our lives are
lived for us. We can only try to enslave others. But gradually, special
perceptions are being developed. The idea of the «Lords» is beginning to form
in some minds. We should enlist them into bands of perceivers to tour the
labyrinth during their mysterious nocturnal appearances. The Lords have
secret entrances, and they know disguises. But they give themselves away in
minor ways. Too much glint of light in the eye. A wrong gesture. Too long
and curious a glance.
The Lords appease us with images. They give us books, concerts, galleries,
shows, cinemas. Especially the cinemas. Through art they confuse us and
blind us to our enslavement. Art adorns our prison walls, keeps us silent and
diverted and indifferent.
Dull lions prone on a watery beach.
The universe kneels at the swamp
to curiously eye its own raw
postures of decay
in the mirror or human consciousness.
Absent and peopled mirror, absorbent
passive to whatever visits
and retains its interest.
Door of passage to the other side,
the soul frees itself in stride.
Turn mirrors to the wall
in the house of the new dead.
THE NEW CREATURES
Snakeskin jacket
Indian eyes
Brilliant hair
He moves in disturbed
Nile insect
Air
You parade thru the soft summer
We watch your eager rifle decay
Your wilderness
Your teeming emptiness
Pale forest on verge of light
decline.
More of your miracles
More of your magic arms
Bitter grazing in sick pastures
Animal sadness the daybed
Whipping.
Iron curtains pried open.
The elaborate sun implies
dust, knives, voices.
Call out of the Wilderness
Call out of fever, receiving
the wet dreams of an Aztec King.
The banks are high and overgrown
rich w/warm green danger.
Unlock the canals.
Punish our sister's sweet playmate distress.
Do you want us that way w/the rest?
Do you adore us?
When you return will you
still want to play w/us?
Fall down.
Strange gods arrive in fast enemy poses.
Their shirts are soft marrying
cloth and hair together.
All along their arms ornaments
conceal veins bluer than blood
pretending welcome.
Soft lizard eyes connect.
Their soft drained insect cries erect
new fear, where fears reign.
The rustling of sex against their skin.
The wind withdraws all sound.
Stamp your witness on the punished ground.
Wounds, stags, arrows
Hooded flashing legs plunge
near the tranquil women.
Startling obedience fom the pool people.
Astonishing caves to plunder.
Loose, nerveless ballets of looting.
Boys are running.
Girls are screaming, falling.
The air is thick w/smoke.
Dead crackling wires dance pools
of sea blood.
Lizard woman
w/your insect eyes
w/your wild surprise.
Warm daughter of silence.
Venom.
Turn your back w/a slither of moaning wisdom.
The unblinking blind eyes
behind walls new histories rise
and wake growling whining
the weird dawn of dreams.
Dogs lie sleeping.
The wolf howls.
A creature lives out the war.
A forest.
A rustle of cut words, choking
river.
The snake, the lizard, the insect eye
the huntsman's green obedience.
Quick, in raw time, serving
stealth slumber,
grinding warm forests into restless lumber.
Now for the valley.
Now for the syrup hair.
Stabbing the eyes, widening skies
behind the skull bone.
Swift end of hunting.
Hug round the swollen torn breast
red-stained throat.
The hounds gloat.
Take her home.
Carry our sister's body, back
to the boat.