by Johannes Goransson on Jul.28, 2011
[Geoffrey Cruickshank-Hagenbuckle wrote this piece.]
You Don’t Stick a Gun Up to Somebody’s Neck and Tell ‘em You Want a Job
Now that you mention it—didn’t the pump jockey Willem Dafoe played in Cronenberg’s Existenz resemble Tom Waits? Time is a circle. You gotta triangulate! So I’m thinking, which came first, Rumblefish by FF Coppola or his Apocalypse Now? See because in Apoc. we get all the way up the Mekong après undergoing tons o’ wicked shit and who else could possibly be there but Mr.King Shit himself Marlon Brando? In its wake of course we have heavies weighing in at the end of every cataclysm like your ick James Caan as God Almighty in uck Dogville.† But—never forget: Dennis Hopper was the photog at Brando’s Montagnard camp hung with headless corpses! And he was also Mickey Rourke’s washed up alkie dad in Rumblefish! So then like Mickey Rourke’s not the real heavy in Rumblefish, Hopper is! Heavier even than Marlon! Now, why do I say such crazy, unwarranted things? On account a Dennis Hopper was the unimpeachably freaked out sicko in Blue Velvet, D. Lynch’s grandmutha of em all!
Well, you may think I solved it. And you’d be almost right! But there’s one more link. Uh huh. Have you forgotten where it all began. Which came first the egg or the hen? Harper Lee! Yuh huh! Fucking To Kill A Mockingbird, oh my droogs. Boo Radley is our all time archimage & paradigm, the pataphysical patriarch of spooky fucks hiding in abandoned houses only to emerge then play a hand. And who I ask you personates Boo the fuck Radley in the b/w movie version? Robert Duvall! Duvall—Lt. Col. “Charlie Don’t Surf” Bill Kilgore, First of the 9th Air Cav—that hard on, was Marlon Brando’s dad! I shit you negative. I crap you nope. I poo yoo no. Thus Mickey Rourke steps out of the gloom today, after theyre all dead, or done for anyhoo, Mickey Rourke (who BTW looks exactly like Tom Waits, post facial reconstruction) strides forth as THE preeminent Hollywood heavy. Undisputed. World title. No question. Proof positive: Ariana Reines—the Bird of Benin—just wrote a poem called I Am the Mickey Rourke of Poetry!
THE MICKEY ROURKE OF POETRY
All I want to do is get bombed
And be the Mickey Rourke of poetry for you
Again. You with nine inches of my chunk
Up your ass. I have the rugged patchwork
Look I know you like when I’m boning
You against this motel mirror, no the other one, with the flowers
Engraved on it. Like my face my junk
Works against me so well and I know
You like the nasty
Things collagen and a long time
In the dark do to a man’s smile. Natural things like
The things I see you seeing me doing to you when I smile at you.
It’s why I’m putting two dick-thick fingers
In your mouth and brushing your hair
Out of your eyes whispering rosebud with all my knuckles knees fat
And muscles until I have to wrench your head back and then
It’s just me and my calluses up your wet
One. How long have you
Been loving me for the Mickey
Rourke that I am, loving me like the French do
It when you immaculate yourself
For the sake of all I’ve lost. Six feet of woman is a perfect
End to a long hard day I always say.
There isn’t enough skin in the world for me.
Why you ask? Because. I’m the Mickey Rourke of poetry
That’s why. When I get done making the bed go boink
Boink I’ll get up and take a dump
With a whiff of your honey mustard on my fingers and then I’ll suck
Each one of them off. Sure, I’ll even leave the door open.
I am here for you like West Side
Story. There’s a place for us. Cum pours from me
Like candy canes out the ass of Saint Nick and I’m so happy
You know it. There I said it. You have made me a happy man. You don’t have to worry
Ever again. I am with you now. The one. The only. The Mickey Rourke of poetry.
Necrologue: In July Ariana got robbed. Among other belongings, her computer and Blackberry were stolen. This poem was saved.
Everything but an Off Switch
There is no drab magic: vision and passion, fire and style. It is possible Ariana Reines is our greatest living poet. Possible in this world, and given an infinite number of worlds, certain in another. Featured recently in anthologies as disparate as Gurlesque and Against Expression, then profiled by Thurston Moore in Dazed and Confused, it exalts to consider her position(s). An ecstatic of whom Werner Heisenberg rules we cannot chart both site and speed at one time . . .
Four gestures measure grandeur.
Majesty mystery service and nerve.
Pertinence. Impertinence. Liter-
Autre. Anywhere out of this word.
Two determinate terms Analog and Digital differ insubstantially— “Variation is repetition.” (John Cage). They squat one pit. Reines, a third, extra-orbital contour, alone escapes such redundant equations. For Reines is full-on Anagogic: “heavenly,” in a word.
EXTARTINAP + V.S.
Tel.: 33-122 Bang:Bang.
“Your last line, my poor Croniamantal,” said the Bird of Benin, “is a direct plagiarism of Fr.nc.s J.mm.s.”
Body Count: Known congenially as “The Headhunters”, the first squadron of the 9th Air Cavalry, attack copters with infantry drop, was credited with 50% of the enemy’s fatalities inflicted by its entire Division. (President-decorated, dreadfully feared.)
† Chloe Sevigny at the “climax” of Brown Bunny . . .
The Poet Assassinated, by Guillaume Apollinaire: translation © Ron Padgett 1985.
‘Nuff said. Against X is an infomercial. Gurlesque: the Boulevard of Crime. (True, the visuals in Gurl are rueful (why can’t poets see?), but in Against Interpretation Expression the editors’ intro to their selection from Louis Aragon is 31 lines long. His poem: 34 letters.
Ariana Reines is the Alberta Prize winning author of The Cow (Fence 2006), Coeur de Lion (Mal-O-Mar 2008), Save the World (Mal-O-Mar 2010), and of the play Telephone, while her Mercury is forthcoming this fall from Fence. Also available as an audio book read by the actress (I Shot Andy Warhol) Lili Taylor.