Tag: cinema

Still Reeling

~ mikebellwrites ~ Leave a comment

An Adler typewriter centre on a desk –
in a remote mountain resort [actually
Elstree – London ] – tricks by chippies
& gaffers – a fake Apollo landing too?
Eagles & minotaurs vex up on walls/
Locations by a second film crew/ Off
white to grey to haemorrhaged hues –
to a scene of clues – or red herrings –
or subliminal lies – no commentaries –
no sense by floors or corridor routes –
just a tracking shot following a small
child on his trike – pedalled & steered
as if another level of plots – carpets &
wall coverings set to confuse with all
eyes on another viewing/ Metaphors –
intents – a room examined every time
by film buffs & message seekers/ RIP
Stanley Kubrick – dead but still reeling

Also on Medium

The Birds

~ mikebellwrites ~ Leave a comment

He pauses his TV to work out what he’s watching [engage Google & explore]
Do you recall? Our effortless recount [any digits] ‘off pat’ [as we said] – Who
knows that motor? It’s an Aston DB2 being [too-hastily] driven with a brace
of fake lovebirds in Hitchcock’s first scenes in his film of The Birds / Driving
feral in pelts – heels & a rented motorboat – No, no bare dips on this road trip
She was clawed by Brylcreem Man & an insatiable gull / Neither artiste won
an Oscar [as we Google & explore] / Tippi Hedren lives on / Pleshette is dead

Lovely

~ mikebellwrites ~ Leave a comment

She stands as she presses
[a hot flat curse by her sex]
at an obdurate crease –
not her finest ironing

Her reproach is thin mist
over her too-quick
Welshman slumped below her
Lovely – as ever – is unheard

inside their stained rooms
on steam and smoke days –
coughs of poked coal
suffer too by spotted damp

She is not loving anger’s
post-war monochrome –
Kodak and snapped charcoal
sketches will not hold her

6lbs of jelly babies, Mister
A smack ’round yer head son
Her boredom swells
and she is too gone to stop

and prepare for blood’s colour
From foul names and bin-dirty words
he is sent to meet an apology
Rain tips needle him

He’s only a sweet stall keeper –
but a good son to someone
We had lots of fun –
me and Ma – just being alive

Everything was a slow exhale –
his soot trumpet breath blows
He looks baritone to everyone
but she sees a pathetic man-child

Por Volver

~ mikebellwrites ~ Leave a comment

Hola – I’m Lucky – you may know me
Buenos Dias – I don’t understand
that played out Spanish soundtrack
I tune into every morning
for my barefoot Yoga exercises

My filter coffee steams like road tar
as it thickens and fixes in minutes –
as my scarred white lungs enjoy
a smoke set off by my lighter’s click –
Look – another pack’s easy stick

So – Listen – I’m lucky to survive
a first deadfall – a foolish indignation
At my age – about tortoise-ish –
things slow down too easily
like a ship – a Large Slow Target –

like that sprung clock of death
which will not stop ticking for me
Truth is – it’s all going away
It’s fucking tough being Lucky
But I ain’t a convoluted piece of shit