This Is Just To Say
I have seen
that they call
It was so terrible
but Jude Law is sweet
and Jack Black is so tasty
Théâtre Des Arts Affreux
About the suffering they weren’t wrong,
My cynical Friends: How well they understood
The Hackneyed Script, how in The
Holiday beautiful people will be boring or Moving Their Own
Cheese, or just whining dully along;
How when the lonely are reverently, passionately waiting
For miraculous romance, you might suddenly join the
People who did not specially want it to happen, skating
An icy pond at the edge of hatred:
They never forgot
That even the most dreadful movie must run its course
Anyhow end in some untidy spot
Where Cameron Diaz goes on with her doggy life and the torturer’s horse,
Kate Winslet, scratches its innocent behind on a tree.
See Jude Law’s Adonis, for instance: how everything there turns away
Quite leisurely from disaster; How Jack Black may
Hear the splash, the forsaken cry,
But for my darling it is an unimportant failure.
The sun shone
As it had to on the rich stupid white people disappearing into
the revolting; and the expensive retarded film
that must have once been: Something amazing, something falling
out of the sky and into love.
Until the studio shit on it, and sailed calmly on.
A Psalm of Life
“Life that shall send A challenge to its end, And when it comes, say, ‘Welcome, friend.'”
WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE HOLIDAY
Tell me not the mournful numbers,
The success of empty box office fodder!
The soul is dumb, and getting dumber;
This shit is no Devil Wears Prada.
Life is real — love is earnest —
Consumer-porn is not its goal:
Dust thou art and to dust returnest,
Neither LA nor Surrey your bolt-hole.
Neither real enjoyment nor sorrow
Is our destin’d end today;
But to hope that each to-morrow
Finds us farther from to-day.
The film is a long, dilated outing,
And the heart, though stout and brave,
Is a muffled drum, and shouting
Profanities, screaming for the grave.
In the arts, and antic field of battle,
In the bivouac of Film,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero! Cecil B. DeMille!
Trust no Bullshit, howe’er pleasant!
Let the dead Rich bury their hearts!
Act — act in the glorious Present!
Avoid dead-skinned sentiment at the start!
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives supreme,
But the dreams of Idiot Chick-Lit Sluts
Leave footprints on our hearts and dreams.
Like dining on pages from J. Crew,
The taste of white teeth, people delighting.
There are no vitamins in your fake-tanned skin,
No nutrition; no thought, no art, no fighting.
Let us then be doing and leaving,
And getting the fuck up out of here.
They’re not pursuing, nor are they achieving.
To work I go, and a giant goddamn beer.
Dulce et Decorum Est
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, cursing, coughing like hags,
Till on the ending credits we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Some marched asleep. Many lost their crepe-soled Cole Haans
And limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all went blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Jet, playing behind:
Tell me one two three, honey.
Jack! Black! Quick, boys! — An ecstasy of fumbling,
A pornographic closeup of Jude Law just in time;
And boys are always beautiful when they say they love you
With tears on widowed or fat faces, and at no other time.
As under a deep sea, I imagined them drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
Cameron Diaz plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Alongside the Titanic we flung Kate back in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in her face,
Her bovine face, like a devil’s, sick of sin —
And feel the jolt of hating even Shannannynnnyn Sossamyssamonn
Come gargling in her froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscurely ugly and obscene, a bitter cancer, the cud
Of vile, incurable catchphrases on innocent tongues —
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Box Office Receipts on Opening Weekend
From Kate’s First Fever To Her Plague
From Kate’s first fever to her plague, from the soft voiceover
And the minute of her hollow womb,
From Miss Misery to the folding soul,
Breasts bound in woolen sweaters, a green apron,
No mouth but Rufus Sewell’s upon her dour famine.
Their worlds are one, a blowing nothing,
New worlds are christened in a stream of booze.
And Surrey is an airy nightmare and a word.
And Cameron’s unearned success, the froggy
Mouth, the faking of the hair,
And Edward Burns retreating like a warning ghost
At the first dumb wonder of her flesh.
The sun runs red, the moon goes grey,
LA is the summit of two nightmares and a gag.
Still she prospers, huge teeth in marrowed gums,
Her horsey charms and the rumor of humor to come
Within the hallowed switch; the blessed hearth and home,
And the four winds blew her ass to Surrey.
Whilst shone in Kate’s ears the light of sound,
Called in her eyes the sound of light.
She discovers moving pictures, swimming pools, magical decrepit Jews.
She still does not believe in love, but is visited by Welshmen in fever dreams
And dark is the singing of the Santa Ana winds.
Love is the plum ‘tween Diaz and Law, maturing slowly
From a drunken boy to a sudden darkened widow
To the daughtered lap of light grown strong;
Muscled hip, the crying wisdom of the oldest boy in London
Add to the story nothing but hunger and an empty charm.
This goes on for several weeks.
Kate learns the dissipation of the flesh while reveling in
Jack Black’s sweet tongue, but they are fat and no-one wants to see them kiss.
They knit and shade in chasteness. I still want to make out with Jack Black.
The magical old Jew does not die, though there are close
Calls; Shannyn Cialis Sammy Sosa is a moonless corpse.
There is no water and no relief. The movie is not done.
Their sudden Love is based on nothing, a spentout cancer.
Only Love in its own naming, where maggots have their X.
We learn the sexual act of consumption, and secrets of self-hatred;
Odes to richesse and FedEx tapped throughout:
Shoes and DVD players, a wondrous telephone, food and wine.
Ten fools — one hundred with one mind — spewed out the matter,
One tin breast gave suck the fever’s issue;
From that disgusting screen we learnt the double,
The two-framed globe that spun into a score;
A million minds gave suck to such a bud
As forks into your eye;
Youth did go dense; the tears of spring
Dissolved in summer and the hundred seasons;
One sun, one manna, neither warmed nor fed.
#254 (“This Holiday — is madness…”)
This Holiday — is madness
of a mostly Crappy kind;
it hobbles — toward its nightmare End,
Product — Placement — on its mind.
But sweetest is the Crying
Of the Jack Black — and the Jude;
Making up for Such — Egregious — Lines,
And Cameron — in the Nude.
I’d heard it Said the show was Shit
Yet — onward, did I run;
Never did attempt it make,
Did it offer — Me — a Crumb.