![]() I coined it myself, “the disorder of extremities in which the subject’s head, seemingly attached, is clearly not the head belonging on that body.” Lately, I’m devising means to shuck it and release this handsome, sweating face beneath. My greatest discovery: the latent medical anomaly: dyscephalus. A knobby pumpkin spinning on a pole, a Harryhausen puppet. You slay each other with pickaxes for love. You people break the laws of science for love. She made love to the monster! The doctor died for glamour! See-? By then Sarandon’s eyes were as big as my fists. I sucked her earlobes and spluttered cool. My girl (I guess she was a girl) sang, “Hot patootie, bless my soul!” so I did. ![]() I lost my virginity in the back row, my stitches out and all. I tore off my disguise and leapt before their screen. A monster flexed like Flash Gordon in gold briefs. I thought I dreamed the picture it melted like a tab of LSD and everybody loved me. I crashed the theater tonight and popcorn flew. Here’s to a son to the House of Frankenstein. Strickfaden saves nothing, resurrects everything. No wonder at such anger their sky is but a wrinkled backdrop their roles but pomp and prop. The toothless mob gathers, calling for death. The trapper stumbles, mouth slack, presenting his sopping offspring. What are the lives of a few rabbits and dogs? Daisies tossed into the lake. And the creature! A flat-headed numbskull, a droop-eyed ghoul with one sunken cheek. Frankenstein throws his spade of earth in Death’s face. The doctor and his cripple rob the graves. The lab apparatus goes like a Catherine wheel, slinging its chips of light. Fire blasts your shadow into sudden cleansing drama, a flood of shine into a darkened wood. Recall that fire is a miracle, the gift of Prometheus who, like Film, stole light. How many paths to that eternal forest fire? Choking on an acorn, or boiling in your own sap, soul divorced from stump, but take comfort. Pray, fantoccino, that some blue, asphyxiated fairy will hear your mulch of tears hitting the earth floor and pity you, grant you mortality. Carpenter ants take off with our lips shared in their pincers. We massage the grain to soften it to flesh, but the termites are already in. Some endure chisel and adze just to look human. In Collodi’s original tale, the unborn log feels the burn of the scalpello, crying out. ![]() “There’s nothing in our eyes - As lonely as a moon”įive Films Reviewed by Dr. It does not store any personal data.The following sounds were used (and altered/distorted) from The cookie is set by the GDPR Cookie Consent plugin and is used to store whether or not user has consented to the use of cookies. The cookie is used to store the user consent for the cookies in the category "Performance". This cookie is set by GDPR Cookie Consent plugin. The cookie is used to store the user consent for the cookies in the category "Other. The cookies is used to store the user consent for the cookies in the category "Necessary". The cookie is set by GDPR cookie consent to record the user consent for the cookies in the category "Functional". The cookie is used to store the user consent for the cookies in the category "Analytics". These cookies ensure basic functionalities and security features of the website, anonymously. Necessary cookies are absolutely essential for the website to function properly. ![]()
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