Here's one from my unpublished Film Catalog Manuscript:
Mystère Picasso
(1955) 75 Min. Henri-Georges Clouzot reveals Picasso's artistic process of painting over and over and over and over again. What is Picasso trying to hide?
I begin with a line flung askew, sensual, drawing that line where it draws me to risk making sense any more than being gored by a bull
*
I slash without a care, knocked off time, unconscious, withdrawing that stare where it singes me to see, smashing sense no more than being touched by women
*
I collage around a nude laid out cold, flabby, spilling off the couch where touch reminds me to wallpaper blue mosaics even while being screwed from view
*
I deface my own mask, blown awry, rigid, savaging the mind where it saws me in half, burrowing earth even when being strung up wrong
*
I stoop beside the canvas, shocked anew, marveling, teasing that pulse where it erases me in dreams, smothering faults over more by being born again
*
I winnow out the excess dredged unhinged, ruthless, ruffling the predictable where it mimes me to mimic, softening the punch more often than being wounded by words
*
I upend the consensus, gleeful, off kilter, mischievous, staring down the stare where it dares me to dare, soiling oils more so than being limited by color
*
I testify to a jones, rad, flipped out, ahistorical, counterculturing the bourgeoisie where they nurture me to rave, brawling the flesh no more than being paranoid in jail
*
I rework the carcass, decomposed, wacko, incestuous, breeding the lice where they breed me to thrive, cubing the form no more than being transformed to form
*
I level in the stars, cunning, witless, curious, following the line where it aligns me to see, messing up more often than being awakened to awe
Here's one from my unpublished Film Catalog Manuscript:
ReplyDeleteMystère Picasso
(1955) 75 Min. Henri-Georges Clouzot reveals Picasso's artistic process of painting over and over and over and over again. What is Picasso trying to hide?
I begin with a line
flung
askew,
sensual,
drawing that line
where it draws me
to risk
making sense any
more than being gored
by a bull
*
I slash without a care,
knocked
off time,
unconscious,
withdrawing that stare
where it singes me
to see,
smashing sense no
more than being touched
by women
*
I collage around a nude
laid
out cold,
flabby,
spilling off the couch
where touch reminds me
to wallpaper
blue mosaics even
while being screwed
from view
*
I deface my own mask,
blown
awry,
rigid,
savaging the mind
where it saws me
in half,
burrowing earth even
when being strung
up wrong
*
I stoop beside the canvas,
shocked
anew,
marveling,
teasing that pulse
where it erases me
in dreams,
smothering faults over
more by being born
again
*
I winnow out the excess
dredged
unhinged,
ruthless,
ruffling the predictable
where it mimes me
to mimic,
softening the punch more
often than being wounded
by words
*
I upend the consensus,
gleeful,
off kilter,
mischievous,
staring down the stare
where it dares me
to dare,
soiling oils more
so than being limited
by color
*
I testify to a jones,
rad,
flipped out,
ahistorical,
counterculturing the bourgeoisie
where they nurture me
to rave,
brawling the flesh no
more than being paranoid
in jail
*
I rework the carcass,
decomposed,
wacko,
incestuous,
breeding the lice
where they breed me
to thrive,
cubing the form no
more than being transformed
to form
*
I level in the stars,
cunning,
witless,
curious,
following the line
where it aligns me
to see,
messing up more
often than being awakened
to awe
Dr. Mike