L I T T L E S E E N

'Cinematic ecstasy' An insta-poem in response to Guy Maddin's THE FORBIDDEN ROOM. We're here in this acrid womb, in the company of sexy, sweaty, dirty, grimy jelly memories, They pulse and blob, and evade our grip. They are the corners of a madman's mind. We are in syrup drenched pancake dreams brimming with the hope of oxygen. Fables fit and start, like bunny tails that flip on the wind just beyond our fingertips. They spiral downwards, and sideways, and inside-out. We are in the thick cream layers of a fanciful desert, gelatinous, sweet and lush, and we are, at the very same time, twisting in the guts of a murdered man, at the side of the road. In the soapy suds of these manic half-parables, we sink bare-chested into baths of thresholds and Janus. We rub ourselves in ever wider circles. We wrap ourselves in fluffy Turkish towels. We do as we are told. We run and run to keep up with the Guy. Our razor breath slices our throats, He fleeces us with moustaches and hollow insurance men, He teases us with acid drenched History and macabre humour. He whips us up in to a frenzy, And we ride the edge of our seats. Pearls snap on the supple flesh of hysterical women and As the submarine rips through its final inhale, the volcano explodes in a rush of sunset kisses. And we are left, out of breath, panting in the afterglow of his climax. We've felt something, most certainly, but it's gone and soon as it hasarrived. It's disappearing already, speeding dots on the horizon, And all that's left is wolves and bones. 

Deakins drawing Pennsylvania cold and clean. 

Gyllenhaal consistently dressing and delivering. 

Jackman sinking and flipping his Wolverine.