Why I believe in beautiful women on Venus.

Queen of Outer Space is a 1958 American color science fiction
feature film in CinemaScope, produced by Ben Schwalb, directed by Edward Bernds, that stars Zsa Zsa Gabor, Eric Fleming, and Laurie Mitchell. The screenplay by Charles Beaumont, about a revolt against
a cruel Venusian queen, was based on an idea supplied by Ben Hecht, originally titled Queen of the Universe. The film was released theatrically
in some markets on a double feature with the Boris Karloff film Frankenstein 1970 a 1958 science fiction/horror film, shot in black
and white CinemaScope, starring Boris Karloff and featuring Don "Red" Barry. The independent film was directed by Howard W. Koch,
written by Richard Landau and George Worthing Yates and produced
by Aubrey Schenck. It was released theatrically in some markets
as a double feature with the Zsa Zsa Gabor film Queen of Outer Space.

Baron Victor von Frankenstein (Boris Karloff) has suffered torture
and disfigurement at the hands of the Nazis as punishment for not cooperating with them during World War II. Horribly disfigured,
he nevertheless continues his work as a scientist. Needing funds
to support his experiments the Baron allows a television crew to shoot
a made-for-television horror film about his monster-making family
at his castle in Germany. This arrangement gives the Baron enough money to buy an atomic reactor, which he uses to create a living being, modeled after his own likeness before he had been tortured. When the Baron runs
out of body parts for his work, however, he proceeds to **** off members
of the crew, and even his faithful butler, for more spare parts. Finally,
the monster turns on the Baron, and they are both killed in a blast of radioactive steam from the reactor. After the reactor is shut down
and the radiation falls to safe levels the monster's bandages
are removed and an audio tape is played back in which the Baron
reveals that he had intended for the monster to be a perpetuation
of himself because he was the last of the Frankenstein family line.
Captain Patterson (Eric Fleming) and his space crew (Dave Willock,
Patrick Waltz and Paul Birch) take a rocket to a space station near Earth.
En route, however, the space station is destroyed by an intersellar energy beam which also affects their rocketship. The space crew crash land
on Venus and are captured. They learn the planet is under the dictatorship
of the cruel Queen Yllana (Laurie Mitchell), a masked woman who has
most men, keeping only mathematicians and scientists on a prison colony moon which orbits Venus. In the palace, the astronauts are aided by a beautiful courtier named Talleah (Zsa Zsa Gabor) and her friends (Lisa Davis, Barbara Darrow and Marilyn Buferd). The women long for the
love of men again and plot to overthrow the evil queen. When Patterson
has the opportunity to remove the Queen's mask, he discovers she has
been horribly disfigured by radiation burns caused by men and their wars.
In a fury, the Queen decides to destroy Earth and its warlike peoples
but she dies in the attempt. The Venusians are free again to enjoy
the love of men.

tonight the sky died a little.
baked us in a soup thick as roux
           ****** lips,
                        loitering less,
                                meditations rests your head on my shoulder.

psychic fever functions as an embryo

                                             EAT. EAT. EAT.

you were amniotic happy! stifled great! pushing jelly feeding the joyous ooze!

contusion clouds burst confusions under the sound.

underground, through the air, and softer the sea.

     a pond a barrier to you and to me

          song as sweet and stiffened at the



                                                         fireflies and jello eyes watching shyly

                              your fingers are blue and ivory they burn in the light

                 song as sweet as the purple dew in the crook of your fingers



                    you are told as strong as sand

                                    you are rock

                    you are clinging to rock atoms

                                      be honest

                     you are shrapnel arriving early and departing late.

the bed is nestled in disarray puffed and creased and folded
all off kilter mattresses scratched up air pad
nightstand bruised by rings of white where water collected
laptop pushing yellow light weakly through the red currant smoke
its warm and inviting your face is tingling and a soft smile lurks.

the trip and walking in the storm

          in the rain neither wet nor dry
              
               skin neither hot nor cold but feeling

                    something smooth and searing pushing on the brain

               fierce winds and acute awareness

          a new phase an evolution a transformation
    
     it flings you up but pulls you down

to that sleepy groove in the shade.

dead leaves on the windowsill and the silhouette of leaves
cast on the fading white wood and the wind
***** the torn up mesh a broken insect screen slashed up
stuck with my head in the blur and the sizzling haze
there's still sound in the skies.

black and fuzzy and walking through a vivid nightmare of things moved around and skewed. rushing and a sharp zephyr that grazes your skin and rustles your hair. its incredible. there is bright light. burning my retinas and pushing on my brain.

i walked around again last night. pulsing in the temples and sniffing e+++rs or whatever you call them now. the urge to binge boils in the pit of my stomach.

infinite visions of infinite timelines of infinite versions of me and myself and everyone around me. my bougainvillea froze and slowly obliterated my memory. the page turns and the blur comes to wipe out the color from my eyes, shut now, fractals danced and the phosphenes came. then stuttering im coming out of it. what?

is this? what is this? another shallow poem that considers itself? low art on the internet begging to go viral? an avant garde approach at a genre begging for something new? just a puff of smoke?

the yellow is nice it takes the sterility of my surroundings the color of it all drained and depleted. at night I choose the sterility and let the colors sharpen and blast.

the smell of earth. that dirt and wind smell from the rain and the loamy soil. the imagery and lucidity glows in the background. feeding on my periphery. come and whisper with me.

not morning but a yellow gleam
encases my surroundings
developing the world
in a faded nostalgic glimmer.

last night i wandered around a club having ditched my friends
just for a bit. it was i needed some space to fill my lungs with
something like impropriety. i ran into a woman who said she loved
my style. she had heavy but well-done eyeliner on, black lipstick
and a serious spray of piercings or diamond studs lining the right side of her face. i gave her a nod and my best i'm-not-drugged
look. i noticed she had a platter so she must have been a server. i clicked my cigarette holder in my tongue and stumble off.

i walk on the other side
im pumping blood to a body that doesn't experience to a body that
cannot relish or feel. both liberating and damning it is.

slaughtered fruits, abandoned plastic, clothes like rags on the floor.
what filth is this
what time has come?
caught and corrupted and cornered.

will anyone read this and will anyone make sense of it?
the importance or the symbolism? the intimacy?
but a poem is just words.
and a cigarette is just smoke.

one simple sting on the tongue liver shocks and
drop by drop you
lie through your teeth.

six Septembers and nine days to the mark I

was gone like a cat hiding in the drains.

                                  look at me. I am yellow with anticipation.

     corrode dates and twist memories like rags and red soak

                             sick and perforated you proliferate and the

cycle continues..

Vasili Kandinsky, Sally Rand & the Bauhaus
were way out ahead of their times,
the Beatles & Stones were retro then & avant-garde now---
**** is instantly retro;
not just any music is avant-garde but any naked woman
is no matter what she does or is currently doing,
Bettie Page & Marilyn Monroe,
Virginia Woolf even in their graves
Are ahead of their times;
Marquis de Sade & Masoch avant-garde;
Jean Genet retro---Blaze Starr avant-garde,
Lili St. Cyr modern & retro---Paul Klee avant-garde,
Marilyn Monroe both Modern & retro (A Gibson girl reborn---Elmer Batters a throwback w/ a camera---
To Diamond Jim Brady he & Lillian Russell were avant-garde---one day we will all be rich & naked,
dripping w/ jewels & connoisseurs)
Sol Lewitt retro; Judy O’Day modern,
To the DPRK, Kpop is avant-garde---
No one called William S. Burroughs a Modernist---
Not to his face anyway, nor Hunter S. Thompson
but the critics did call Thomas Wolfe a Modernist
& avant-garde---F. Scott Fitzgerald heralding a new age
that passed away w/ Zelda in the madhouse inferno
& Scott trying to write screenplays
but movies were retro by the 30s
& the avant-garde already history---
Modernism vanishing decades later w/ Basquiat
& Warhol & Schnabel & Fischl et al---
Martha Graham was Modern, Isadora  retro
all the way back to ancient Greece naked & barefoot---
Robots get smaller & put u out of a job,
yet so efficient fembots become a reality---
Putting women out of work in a world
where no one needs strippers---
living in a technological delusion w/ the illusion of religion
confusing their imploded minds---
The world will always need stripper retro,
modern, avant-garde & beyond
from the beginning to the end of all time,
in the Crazy Horse multiverse,
When no one needs prostitutes
only drugs will do---drugs & technology, global psychedelia,
Nationalism, racism & violence are all so retro;
Modernism has simply ceased to exist
& the avant-garde has yet to be---
Women would dance naked for drunken men---
Not anymore---now it’s fembots playing virtual games
w/ video ******
Toulouse Lautrec & Eugene O’Neill
were avant-garde but not modernists---
Dita Von Teese is postmodern as am I
& Lady Gaga & Bettie Page & Blaze Starr to this day---
Let she who is w/o sin cast the first stone
at the ghost of go-go---
No one ever complained
about an old-fashioned cooch show
except the girls that were in it
although they loved it & would do it again & again
well into their sixties, seventies, eighties, nineties---
No one complains about long forgotten stag films
left in boxes on basement floors
showing grandma w/ the neighbor
circa World War Two and into the 1950s---
No one complains about ****** harassment
unless they’ve been harassed---
No one complains about ****
except those that have been ***** & not always then---
No one complains about ******
except those that have been murdered---
No one complains about postmodern burlesque
Although the rule is ‘if anything moves, **** it’
& if any man reaches for his *****, arrest him---
The Modernist/postmodernist Marcel Duchamp’s
bride stripped bare by her bachelors even
gets no complaints from MOMA or  any other mother---
I can’t wear this mask anymore
& there’s nothing behind it---
If I kicked ur door in & shot ur mother dead
several times just to be sure
she was ******* deader than dead
& said I must have made a mistake, would that be cool w/ u, officer?
The Frankfurt School & Fassbinder & poststructuralism
are the heirs to Maria’s estates
from Frankenstein to Superman,
At the school of the Soviet fembot---
her Japanese mother is a witch who is not a stranger
to myths of night; eating off ***** plates on the floor---
Her name was Amelia then---
She’s a pig tonight---
I & the son are one
with the background radiation---
Getting people to help her
carry her ***-stained mattress
around campus is neither modern, retro & or avante-garde---
Its plain disgusting, help me carry my *** stains across campus
So you can see where my period bled & I said no---
(The ancestors of the the fembot are not strangers
She is named Emma tonight,
she is the pig tonight)