Category Archives: Media

“Accident”

It was raining the day they were to

shoot her scenes and Dirk just

shrugged the way he did and

studied the crossword.

It wasn’t a big part—the

wronged wife in a

merry-go-round of infidelity

amidst the upper-middle class.

The script was by Pinter and a

tad pretentious but it was

work and she didn’t want it

to go to waste, so she

found the oilskin and the

sou’wester and went without

shoes on the wet grass despite the

sparks’ cables snaking nearby.

She thought she might seem silly,

not thinking how erotic she looked—

a barefoot English rose in a

mackintosh, all wet.

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Angles

The problem with pictures is persistence,

the visual intensity of the shoot

seeping into the rest of my life so that

talking with my wife in our

narrow kitchen I’m thinking

how do I get the reverse angle,

do I need the chippie to remove the door or

do I need to ask her to move

so she will be in the shot?

Dead Air

I love the absolute silence of a Sound Stage

before 7 when I have to

stumble to find the working lights,

open my script and see pictures,

people moving in space, stories

unrolling like Sinbad’s carpet,

thoughts popping, feeding on the

dead air and the faint smell of

old movies.

Restricted View

I have a restricted view of your life:

some important events are

just out of my sight, others

seen at an odd and

disquieting angle.

For long moments I

anticipate your appearance

only for some ingénue or

spear-carrier to take your place,

and just when I thought I would get

a good long look at you

a pillar would intrude and

no amount of craning would reveal

your secret moments.

Comic Cuts

(A sharp-edged setting

summed up pronto—

moonlit penthouse,

high-tech, empty.)

 

Telephone burbles

and sex interrupted:

he answers in silence,

she listens in dread.

 

A gun from a drawer is

hastily pocketed,

a hurried embrace then

she watches him go.

 

The next time she sees him

he bleeds on her shoulder

in the back of a limo

on a traffic-free street.

 

Revenge is a boardroom,

seven suits in a row:

there’s blams and there’s blood

and a reckoning is done.

 

He looks tired when she greets him,

there’s a cut-out of kiss,

then they walk away happy,

a long shot of bliss.

Cinematography

Wide shot, mid-shot, medium close-up,

close-up (CU for short),

BCU, FBCU (that’s

Fucking Big Close-Up. Ma’am),

Irish Salute (think

just the eyes),

macro (for flies’ eyes to see it):

Dutched, if I want it

at an angle;

Dollied, if I want it

moving;

Spanished, if I want it

gone;

DFI, if I have a

different fucking idea;

and if I ask a spark why

a light’s not working,

the fucking fucker’s

fucking fucked.

 

This is the language of my working day:

abstruse and vulgar and fizzing with that

evanescent poetry

of the workplace.

“Naked on my Goat”

“Dear Miss Brooks,” I would begin

in answer to her Delphic letters

on ochre paper, in purple ink.

Well what do you say to a movie star?

 

She was not your regular movie beauty–

Kansas stock, hard-working dancer,

small tits, broad hips and shoulders that

could carry coal or speed the plough—

but those mischievous eyes and those

plump lips beckoned from beneath

that patent-black bob that bears her name,

bewitching men and confusing her.

“I couldn’t unbuckle the Bible Belt,” she said,

though she fucked like a stoat, trying.

Intelligent, well-read, sharp-tongued—

the Moguls, smelling trouble,

gladly shipped her to Europe,

so she cut her hair, became Lulu,

hurried into History.

 

Going home she found herself forgotten,

shrugged those shoulders, went to work:

days, she sold scent in Macy’s;

nights, she drank with Bogey and friends

and met men who worshipped beauty but knew

nothing of a woman.

Eastman (of Kodak) took her to Rochester,

immured her under the Falls and the crowds,

and she shrugged and wrote, magically,

short memoirs in short-lived magazines which I found

in dusty stacks in London.

I fell in love with mind and beauty,

talked so much of her I one day

got a call, a lunch, an invitation

to rewrite what she’d burnt

and a letter on my dull doormat

on ochre paper

in purple ink.

Hi Def

I am a close-up,
in your face,
relentless,
tears rolling down my
Hi Def cheeks,
my pores open for your
delectation: perhaps
you would like to see what
I had for lunch or
what became of it?

Atropa Belladonna Von Coup

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