Really, No Comment 3

To rest among corpses fits, logically when it’s considered

through a Dickens lens, for we’re all dead anyway

especially now, finding life in the grit

smirking and chuckling like a reflex reaction,

ungirded with intent to punish and judge

worthy those that claimed a place, leaving non grata

bygone brothers and sisters, pitiable portions

of the landscape, we are born again

in a bizarro centerpiece, let the chips fall

for they may crush, and that’s what we want.

Really, No Comment 3

Poem: The Wartime

The battle was weeks of hell, baskets of mortar

dropped on a frozen rope, onto my friends trapped

with nothing to win, they are happy now

rendered headless, we chopped off what we could

to drop into the sea, we are war machine, screaming

merciless mantras, passing a chalice

boozy of humor, laughing with satan

at the suffering fireworks, burn the wound making

cauterized ruination, I fear sepsis

taking hold, but will die before its done.

 

Pandemonium marketplace setups

selling soldiers to the bidder, elevated not

though square dealing on the level

with rules to follow, and malice aforethought

you understand, for a known game is just

talk of death for traitors and spies

wearing suits, costuming a new hell

appearing as death in the mirror

again, the children are hungry

but nothing grows anymore period.

 

A cruel, merciless decision we made,

admittedly, to stand apart from fury

with sickly cowardice we turn away,

though we chastise ourselves and each other

for acting likewise, because flagellation feels

good when we use words, joy is diminishing

words we don’t like to use in public

but we still do, for wouldn’t you

if you had esteem waiting, but you don’t

because you only serve, like a lever.

 

Check marks, first thing is the first,

a nice fruity phosphate, Mountain Due

Condition Blue or something, tasting love

is sweet sunshine and comfort costs

money in peacetime, my arms rendered

useless but to pull a lever, push a plunger

off the edge, slipping into a dragon chase,

or maybe it’s a nightmare, but waking

in a box is a bad omen, I’ve heard.

 

Large in charge of the floor, big shot

all of a sudden, struggling still up against

a whiteboard colored in bullshit,

first buy the bonds, afterwards pay the piper

for the tolls that number sixteen

more than before, on the same street

all of a sudden, knowing there’s not a place

we could afford uptown, anyway

hunting a point out, precisely placed

because you might have just one chance.

 

Voltaire and Camus came together

to work on “All Quiet,” or whatever

it will be called, and directed by Dickens

with Gandhi producing, De Sade scripting

the tale of a lonely stable-boy in love

with a maiden of the conquered people,

but alas he is gutshot, and dies alone

in the dark, no dry eyes, best picture

contender at least, that’s for sure.

 

I feel like Django, dragging a coffin behind me

filled with my trespasses, and the yelping

victim wails that fell on deaf ears echo

in the night, haunting things I’ve done

rest in the unknown enemy’s moving tomb,

they would’ve done me as I did them,

but still they glare with hole eyes, sucking portals

sucking to a world of shit, so forever good night.

 

I wrote a book called “Push the Chips”

detailing my fall and rise, it was a whitewash

snow job poorly detailed emotional history,

just as devotees rise and shout praises

out of tune, paper away the detritus

pushing to next, and gearing up is the key

with a spiked helmet and chains,

you gotta mash the allies, tell no one

what you’ve done, it is a horror.

 

The movie’s have changed, and none remain

better then ever, though history clones are

all the rage bubbling, they disappoint

with cookie-cutter mechanics and terra cotta

characters, so open the door and pull ideas

off of the chaff pile, we will shield them

with complacency, I have to write

my new novel, the one to lift them up

by the heart, which is all there is.

 

The first time I attempted suicide

I woke up in the hospital, zippered

into my bed, joining rage and regret

in a blender, pushing pulse over again,

smearing pain and scrawling hate

on the wall, they started marking milestones

after a time, now not even a walker

with me, the sad kids get some hope.

 

This is my resignation not from chiefs

of executive office, in them a poison

growing from their heart through their pores,

making them seem soupy, and red

of brick and beet and tomato, but we know

what it really is, representing an ending

for everyone, I move to my forest cabin,

shut off, my kids won’t talk to me at all

now, maybe they’ll never, but I’m finally free.

 

The court calls me Notnow Neverwas

and they laugh, when I enter or leave,

they say it through a cone, long and loud

“Ladies and Gentlemen!  Boys and girls!”

then they lower the boom, pointing to me

a smiling finger, no, they cackle grimly

without humor, but they don’t even know

no one’s laughing, either and I have a knife

behind my back, time for some justice.

Poem: The Wartime

Poem: Khan

We gotta be an army,’cause it’s us verse them

all over again, warp speed five overdrive

and dammit, how did he know?

 

But you gave as good as you got, at least they can say that

you know, and we damaged their fazers

warp drive, and they ain’t goin nowhere.

 

A distinct possibility, barely sir suicide telephone

operator standing by, pen on paper planting

in your back a hoe, because you’re both bad at this.

 

Best we could do in two hours, a one mark three

two four, marching down a hallway

wearing an ascot, emergency lights abound around

 

Tactically inoperative, raise the shields

rushing down on a chariot, torpedoes fire

harking make them stark, stretched out like a bird.

 

Pre-emptive possibility, mirror facing cannibals

we could be sometime soon, was ego in my lenses

and is it still?

 

Are they shadow puppets?  In my mind

do they plot against me, tuckered in candle light

blanket forts, leaning and caressing.

 

Refracted reality satire is everywhere, in the walls

and copper wire, for it bleeds through the frame

when you spot it, feeling it in the pulse.

Poem: Khan

Movie Review: Observe and Report

Observe and Report (2009)

Starring: Seth Rogen, Anna Farris, Ray Liotta

Writer/Director: Jody Hill

As a mainstream comedy, Observe and Report might appear disjointed, unsettling and perhaps even unpleasant, but as a twisted and violent character study, it is a criminally underrated gem.  The film centers around Ronnie (Seth Rogen), a mall security guard who’s delusions of grandeur and seemingly severe bipolar disorder combine to make him an incredibly dangerous person.  Opening on a tracking shot that follows a chubby disheveled looking miscreant as he runs through a parking lot exposing himself to people and yelling things like “I’m gonna fuck you!” and “Touch it slut!”  This vaguely horrifying opening is just the beginning, and it acts as a pallet cleanser for the film’s coming parade of misguided and damaged people.

Seth Rogen owns the film, creating a protagonist that might win you over with his bright-eyed enthusiasm, only to horrify you when he tazes people for no reason or badly beats a group of teenagers for skateboarding in the parking lot.  The flasher, to Ronnie, represents a chance to prove himself, and perhaps even an opportunity to become a real police officer.  The police are represented here by Detective Harrison (Ray Liotta), and though in a more conventional comedy this character would eventually gain a begrudging respect for Ronnie’s passion and level of effort, in Observe and Report his annoyance turns into abject hatred by the midpoint of the film, and the relationship between these two becomes central to the narrative.

Ronnie’s conflict with Detective Harrison represents what I believe is the crux of writer/director Jody Hill’s (Eastbound and Down) entire comedic sensibility.  Hill prefers to focus on those that cling to the underside of society.  Ronnie’s mother (Celia Weston) is such an alcoholic that she has trouble stringing a sentence together, and the object of his affection Brandi (Anna Faris) is likewise a mess.  On her and Ronnie’s one and only date, she downs shot after shot of tequila before taking his prescription psych meds and swallowing them one after another.  This leads to a disturbing sex scene in which she appears to be unconscious laying on a vomit stained pillow (if you’re thinking date rape, she does say “don’t stop motherfucker” in the middle).  The one character who seems to have it more-or-less together is Ronnie’s assistant Dennis (Michael Pena), who it turns out has been planning to rob the mall, which he does in spectacularly destructive fashion.

Where every character ends his or her story might be an indication that (writer/director) Hill has an affection for the scumbags and bottom feeders of society, but I don’t necessarily think that this is the case.  I think Observe and Report is more of a funhouse mirror, a strange and heightened perversion of reality wherein people’s addictions and faults of character are their defining characteristics.  In this perverted world, Ronnie (Seth Rogen) is the alpha, a character who’s devotion to the lies he builds around himself shield him from the judgement of the rest of the world.  The distorted reality the film surrounds itself in, and its unwillingness to soften its message for the masses are sure to make it a future cult classic.

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Trailer:

Movie Review: Observe and Report

Poem: Contested Bloodbath

“Their skin is different and they’re coming!”

scream enflamed anuses, wearing masks and burning leaflets,

censored Wicker Man stuck in a Nicolas Cage,

“Rage is power” scream dire spokesmen, “Unleash and burn it all!”

stupid blades jag left and write, authoring wars of confused misdirection,

rope-a-dope movement, dump it in the fryer, sleep to the scream symphony,

“It’s my party and you’ll die if I want you to,”

delegates bound with twine, chewing cud and bullshit,

hanging from rafters and pissing on the electorate,

“”Plunge suffocation,” master says, “this man lost faith”

standing over onetime prophet, shoving his head in a bucket,

face force into sunlight, offstruck at the hinge,

“Not one of us will know rules but dangers are all around,”

read by the light of their glowing eyes, dream by the paranoid light,

the spies everywhere, false hearts in drunken frenzy,

“Look!” the hangman spouts, “to your left is a liar,”

bathe in kin blood, don’t look back, future reflective blindsight,

blodpile champion, leading down a darkened suicide,

“Hear the shouts and raise the blinds high, we finally come home,”

months after, the carnage was through,

the dead outnumber the living, and no one sings the old songs.

Poem: Contested Bloodbath

Poem: The Last Game

The host held the mic at its base, wielding it like poo on a stick and jabbing it at people,

“What’s the answer?”

words pointed sharp, loud and aggressive at first,

when young, sweat beaded, teeth whitened, a positivity tornado,

after three decades, he hates it all now,

everyone, braying bitch bastards, mistake machines and turbo divas,

making eyes at the camera, never for cue cards and kissy faces,

“God you are ass-ugly,  stupid,”

and they laughed, cheered and put him in magazines.

he stares straight forward, asking himself to monolog, but he forgot the words,

weeping on the white tile floor, landing a squish moist mat,

six bullets in the revolver, ready to bang a curtain call,

“Get this wrong and I die”

he threatens with barrel to temple, pressing and shaking,

“Honeydew,” she said, though the answer was cantaloupe,

two words, short and sweet to be his last,

“so close,”

bang said the gun, everyone screamed

retrospect hilarity, and they study it in school now, too,

he wanted to win oscars, now he’s a psychology thesis,

“Richard Preston, suicide champion, the dawning of a new performance art.”

Poem: The Last Game

The Head (Volume 2)

His name was Alister, or that’s what he took, anyways,

like a coin he flipped, into the thieves ken, student-wise,

“Or so he says” said the boy, but Horshoe is elder, he decides,

“The future can be ours,” he said, “But I am older always,”

like a windy rainstorm on the plain, rushing and nothing else,

the boy is blustery screaming vengeance for the horror wrought,

wrought in the future though, it must be said, if he’s honest,

“For now you tire,” says jackal taking a knee, “Rest and heal,”

these were kind words, the boy realized, and felt a familiarity.

 

He lay on a cot against the wall, Jackal kicked the leg out,

calcium musical collision, he was socked, eyes open,

“Okay kid,” Horshoe howled coyotily, and Jackal too,

“”First task:” in unison declared, “We need a dinner,”

“Get us food,” Jackal put plainly, an assignment was had,

“Find a stranger,” Horshoe held my gaze in his hands,

as he pounded his palm, “And take what’s his,”

“Get food,” Jackal interjected, “If you don’t I’ll be cross,”

Horshoe cackled, “Worry not, he’ll do naught without say-so,”

Jackal said nothing, allowing his knuckles to dangle,

the boy was off, to search for a coin purse or pettibag,

bystanders are spread wide, seems, rivers between,

daylight lingers caution, so once again waiting’s the game,

no hidden hovel, his shelter was the strength of his gait.

 

Sunset and Alister saw a citizen, stretching in a field,

“Like a mental case,” spoken aloud, “What are you?”

“Readying,” he said, folding his arms over his knee,

“Do you not?” he quested like he’s the teacher,

so the boy threw a rock, on a straight line to his temple,

that was intent, of course far from real, as it landed in hay,

the citizen ignored it, as if righteous, or he didn’t notice,

lies like these are oil, pour it on and set it aflame,

charging, gripping, pounding and crushing his head,

such was Alister’s intent, but he was disarmed quick,

his wrist was wrenched, and his eyes blurred white flash,

the boy cried out, praying as his knees hit the ground,

and a final thud, just as he heard Jackal and Horshoe,

 

The boy woke to the two of them sitting, filled up and forthright,

he noticed a dead body near the fire, “was his death required?””

the boy asked, crestfallen morality mask, asking and curving eyebrows,

“Requirement is illusion,” Horshoe taught, “4 letter words,”

“Like have and must are poison, directions and barriers,”

and they taught that in the world, self is the one only good,

the boy saw through their seduction, his eyes on the guidebook,

they were vulnerable, the boy figured of the unarmed thieves,

wine was a drunk then, and each of them swayed crashing,

but there were two of them, so he set to sewing conflict,

“So where to next?” he asked, to Jackal only, as Horshoe watched,

“Training,” said Horshoe stone faced, “You need teaching,”

“This is true,” Jackal agreed, “But our stores need filling,”

and the two of them fought, plastered confusion face paint.

 

Each of them cursed the other, and Alister stirred the pot,

“Horshoe said” was a lie I told, and “Jackal said” the same,

Horshoe: “I taught Jackal all he knows, and he would be nothing were I not everything,”

Jackal: “Horshoe is a liar and a thief whose day as come, he’s dead and his time is done,”

he agreed to aid each, palming blades and burying pebbles,

the boy pledged aid to each, waiting for a cleansing bloodbath,

Jackal: “You will approach from behind, piercing flab and muscled exterior coverings,”

Horshoe: “You will cut his throat while I hold his arms and we douse our flame in his blood,”

at sunrise, dual betrayal deliberated too late, time to go,

this was the time pledged to both, so the boy decided to see,

Jackal and Horshoe both struggled, expecting my aid, forthcoming not through the fight

Jackal stabbed Horshoe in the torso, as his throat was cut, and both of them fell away.

 

Both of the thieves Alister travelled with were bleeding to death,

as he had killed both of them, in self defense he’d figured,

and though they were both dead, their lessons remained,

he searched both satchels, finding them empty, thieves are poor,

but thrown off discarded into a ditch, a wolf’s eyes were still,

the boy boiled as this bystander was a salesman from the night before,

the boy’s thoughts of honor, his belief in the concept was threatened,

perhaps no such thing is, he spoke aloud in his head to himself,

honor is dead, and coin is the one poor good, so he wrapped the head,

slinging it in a satchel over shoulder, he set out to sell his wares,

he wait for darkness, the head overslung shoulder, torch held aloft.

 

Volume 1:

https://andrewhalteromniblog.wordpress.com/2016/03/29/poetry-the-head-volume-1/

The Head (Volume 2)