I had started the year with the goal of creating one or two short films per month and here we are at the end of February and well nothing to show for it.
I have been working on some very interesting and new (for me) projects at work including a Facebook game, and iPhone App which have been more than satisfying my “need to be present at the creation” jones.
However I have written the narration for 9 new short films even if the recording and visuals remain mostly undone.
So as stop gap, here is a draft for the narration of American Arabesque V 3.0.1
American arabesque
Charming Augustine played pencil music for all the single ladies.
Shadowland is ist a point of entry?
Or light from the other side.
Sugar water
dog water,
boys on the make dressed in Red Army coats with their declarations of war.
East coast chases west coast,
violet flames drip like honey
under the oak of golden dreams.
Powered up, always on
an endless humiliation of check in charlies.
People like us
we are in isolation units
or on forced voyages playing machine gun
and air guitar
for the ambassadors of Turtle Bay.
The horror of birth scares the (i)pod kings -
it is contrary to their memories.
Above the urinals
With a peyote queen in the Capital bathrooms
I some Found Poetry:
“We dance in cloud land ball rooms
listening to jazz and watching the food channel
and snuff films of embryos entering the riddle of life.”
Some stories are not ok,
points in space,
flash artifacts of this or that
repeated for the cheap phone cameras.
Perpendicular teens and bored wives make motions in real time.
Quarter tones on skype whispering:
“I understand”
So all women are Joan of Arcs?
bad burns,
media burns,
foutains, monuments, sculptures -
Just win, place or show me your tits while you read me the news please.
Out of the clouds an invasion of thunderbolts,
the mood of the seas change.
Broken music, brain damage and summer storms.
In the east with limited understanding of Einstein
the four horseman live till heaven and thereafter, saying
“good bye stranger how is it?”
Then over the course of two nights in October
at an autumn feast of country grammar and Cadillacs
I stopped at the tracks of improvised music.
I followed the long string to the snows
where the way we do art now – dies.
It is Cuckooland.
Friends from Montparnesse arrive at a white house
they show outtakes from Beirut
and tell sacred tales of same sex marriages feasts at the federal building in Oklahoma city.
We listen.
Radio Tehran plays the sounds of blood to the tune of wish-art appropriation.
At the corner those alive with Jesus form circles
Holding their breath for the new humans
They are dead by the third act.
Fat worms and viruses transverse cyber-sadism in real time.
Spectrum rippers blow debris like hurricanes
across my Desktop.
If Lot in Sodom had this he’d be another old smoking movie star.
Or making plans with the Cabrini sisters
for a small workshop of “Nine variations for bulimics and marginal thespians”.
We dug a tunnel through the electric earth,
the Pit Music Orchestra played “Invisible adversaries”
a soundtrack to Ulysses.
In the T-room at the Berlin House.
a joker and a crow were conceptualizing
and manipulating each other.
The tenured journalist had nothing to lecture on but hit it hard anyway.
For Augustine and his lovers the wind blew
but it did not fit the story
so it was cut.
We left the whispering pines,
nursing wounds
and no longer humming show tunes.
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