i know the ******* had a breakthrough in the Actors' Studio, and moaned and groaned his way through interview after interview, and that no woman was mentioned...*

some say locality, some say orientation,
they mean the locus but stress the orient
with purpose and demure to an advent
beset by a Catholic calendar to
celebrate the saints and pay-off the castratos
add ******'s genitalia to the violin
for baritone of brass sound
with angelic choir one of Hannibal's trumpets
charging in to shake things up...
but what an opening, i'd rather watch
1980s Hollywood horror drenched in
Parmesan than 1990s thrillers than
post 2010 comedy...
but there's still Lawrence Lipton and his book,
you can try to encapsulate the beat movement with
the slogan: insurrection of slang against
imperial vocab sophistication...
the beats were all about the "square", or the "hip
culture, Eucharist of jazz and poetry",
the beat movement from a historical perspective,
kinship via repertoire to the Renaissance
Sistine Chapel crew, much the same,
the tetragrammaton ingested by the crucifix,
no bust of Samson, not Caligula,
no Marcus, not even Nero, a symbol derived from
a tool for torture rather than thinking, Louis XIV and the sun
can hide next to that thing, the iron maiden too...
with humans you sometimes wish to be a chicken,
at least the butcher knows you're edible and
does a kosher death to you... but with humans?
you hardly know... it's a gamble...
never mind the benefits of Darwinism,
i'd rather be a chicken these days,
at least i'd know the hierarchy perfectly,
rather than jellyfish through all arguments
and argue non yet continue in disgrace to: "improve",
yet not really improving -
for the non-existence of an imaginary being like god
it's no wonder Disneyland came about,
but using such alphabetic symbolism is hardly
stressing the use of imagination, more or less memory...
that's what the nobles stressed anyway...
ensure they can't memorise these phonetic encodings
and keep them entertained by imagining things
from the dull embrace of labour via heaven...
but i had it another way... memory: the greatest cinema...
memory is the perfected cinematography -
if you're good there won't be a prime, a central character
played by your conscience,
if you'e bad there will be a cold-sweat,
a sweaty sword unearthed from a haemorrhaging wound
(woond rather than wound, as in winding the clocks back?)
by translation of image a dinner fork digging into
a medium-rare stake... memory is the perfect cinema...
well... if you have a memory worth rekindling
into phantasmagorical images not appearing,
makes looking at inanimate things all the more
entertaining, given you actually want to remember,
then memory is the perfect form of cinema,
i go there very often... the bully conscience always
tries to sell me a ticket, i tell it i'm a shade rather than
a v.i.p., every time it lets me in, although nagging...
memory is the perfect form of cinema...
i know that in reality imagination dons the crown,
but that's throng-centric, i'm talking a rich-boy's
palette of champagne and caviar, memory is the mono
pleasing experience, it's not the crowd furore anticipation
for a gasp to be louder than a yawn.
i swear the English are passing on slapstick-humour
with the membrane " "... i can feel it... it's a Pontius Pilate's
way of saying things... Chinese whisper two-point-oh.