Showing posts with label Mad Poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mad Poetry. Show all posts

Thursday, December 2, 2010

The Headless Portrait

I hope people have been enjoying the Naschy sonnets this week. I certainly enjoyed writing them, and with a subject I am so passionate about, the words just streamed from my quill!

This time, something a little different--if you well, a poetic set-up for the non-existent (except in my imagination) third film in the Alaric de Marnac cycle. Like the Daninsky flicks, this one would have no continuity with the previous film, except for sharing a few tropes and symbols, such as the titular object. Hope you like it!




The Headless Portrait
(inspired by Horror Rises from the Tomb)

I found it in a small shop by the Seine
just three blocks from my office. Through the glass
it stopped me cold; I simply could not pass.
The keeper did not know its origin.

I combed my books until at last I learned
the artist's name. An old man, quite surprised
to find I had it. He'd believed it burned
with all his other work. I first surmised

his mind had gone--to judge from his wild tale:
Immortal warlocks, walking dead, a heart
ripped from a virgin chest! But now I pale
to think of what I purchased with his art.

De Marnac's laughter echoes down the hall;
I rise from bed to heed my Master's call.

--S. Standridge, The Vicar of VHS

MORE MADNESS...

Wednesday, December 1, 2010

The Hunchback's Lament

(Another Naschy sonnet, this time inspired by The Hunchback of the Morgue)

I swore my dying love I'd bring her flowers
and watch beside her deathbed every day;
But left her lonely in her final hours
thanks to those bastard meds; I made them pay!

I took her body with me to the crypt;
the doctor swore he'd bring her back to life!
But vermin intervened, crawled in and stripped
the flesh from bones that should have been my wife.

It does no good--it isn't any use
to play the game according to their rules.
I know that now, but that won't soothe the sting.
The cops won't leave Gotho alone--the fools!--
and Doc keeps feeding corpses to the Ooze.
I guess I'll go; it's always some damn thing.


--S. Standridge, "The Vicar of VHS"

Image credit--Mondo 70

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Tuesday, November 30, 2010

Malediction of the Yeti

(another sonnet by The Vicar of VHS, inspired by Night of the Howling Beast)

Believe me: I've seen human beings enough
to differentiate. They're pretty strange:
those tiny feet, the hair that grows in tufts
on bare pink skin, as if they had the mange;

And man, the stink they make! There's nothing reeks
like them to my refined, simian nose.
It festers in my sinuses for weeks!
So take my word: this isn't one of those.

This leaps off boulders like a flying squirrel,
with claws and temper like a wolverine!
Then kills ten men, but doesn't kill the girl?
No Yeti acts like that! What can it mean?

Worse yet, the howling keeps me up at night.
Much more of this, there's gonna be a fight.


--S. Standridge, "The Vicar of VHS"

MORE MADNESS...

Monday, November 29, 2010

Vicar-ious Verse: "Jacinto Meets the Wolf Man" (a sonnet)

"The lights went out and the magic began ... After the film I went out into the street in a trance ... From that day on Larry Talbot was my hero. I even recall that, on one occasion when my mother asked me what I wanted to be when  I grew up, I replied, 'A werewolf.' You should have seen the look on her face!"

--Paul Naschy, recalling his first viewing of Frankenstein Meets the Wolf Man as a boy
from Memoirs of a Wolfman (Luminary Press, 1997, translated by Mike Hodges).


Where did it start, Jacinto? In the tomb,
the coffin stuffed with wolfsbane? Talbot's peace
disturbed when robbers bared him to the moon,
and fell before mad, immortal beast?

Or later, at the feast of the New Wine--
the cursed man's torment, never understood?
Or in the ruins of Castle Frankenstein
where legends fought and fell before the flood?

I wish I could have watched you--still a boy--
while monsters dragged your soul into the screen;
I wish I could have looked you in the eye.
I might have watched it start; I might have seen
the swelling of that childlike, boundless joy
that lived in you, and now will never die.


--S. Standridge
"The Vicar of VHS"

MORE MADNESS...

Friday, December 18, 2009

Poetry Friday: Ave Maria by Frank O'Hara

Found this poem, and it seemed appropriate to the site. Take heed, my parishioners, and enjoy.


Ave Maria

Mothers of America
let your kids go to the movies
get them out of the house so they won't
know what you're up to
it's true that fresh air is good for the body
but what about the soul
that grows in darkness, embossed by
silvery images
and when you grow old as grow old you
must
they won't hate you
they won't criticize you they won't know
they'll be in some glamorous
country
they first saw on a Saturday afternoon or
playing hookey
they may even be grateful to you
for their first sexual experience
which only cost you a quarter
and didn't upset the peaceful
home
they will know where candy bars come
from
and gratuitous bags of popcorn
as gratuitous as leaving the movie before
it's over
with a pleasant stranger whose apartment
is in the Heaven on
Earth Bldg
near the Williamsburg Bridge
oh mothers you will have made
the little
tykes
so happy because if nobody does pick
them up in the movies
they won't know the difference
and if somebody does it'll be
sheer gravy
and they'll have been truly entertained
either way
instead of hanging around the yard
or up in their room hating you
prematurely since you won't have done
anything horribly mean
yet
except keeping them from life's darker joys
it's unforgivable the latter
so don't blame me if you won't take this
advice
and the family breaks up
and your children grow old and blind in
front of a TV set
seeing
movies you wouldn't let them see when
they were young


--Frank O'Hara

MORE MADNESS...

Sunday, October 4, 2009

Vicar-ious Verse at ChiZine.com!

In addition to being a formidable force in the world of Mad Movie criticism and the Theology of Ancient Video Formats, your ever-lovin' Vicar also dabbles in the literary arts. He's a writer and poet (and most of you know it), and while Mad Movie writing takes up much of his time, he still dips his quill every now and then in the service of belles lettres.

I bring all this up because my free-verse poem, "Haunt," has just been published by the online journal ChiZine (aka Chiaroscuro; http://chizine.com) as part of their spooky Halloween issue. Those interested in literature and the Vicar as a person can check it out by clicking on the link below:

"Haunt," by Scott Standridge, on ChiZine.com

Comments are invited and welcomed, so long as they're made up entirely of unqualified praise. ;)

Stay tuned for more Mad Movies, and our 200th review contest!

MORE MADNESS...

Friday, May 1, 2009

Vicar-ious Verse: El Soneto del Hombre Lobo

I've been poetically inspired lately, and today I present a poem I scribbled recently for your favorite Spanish werewolf and mine, the inimitable beefiness that is Paul Naschy. Enjoy!




La Noche del Hombre Lobo
--para Jacinto, con muchas gracias

They had him in his grave, or so they thought--
but now he stalks the moors and knows no rest.
The Gypsies, damn them--dirty, thieving lot!
have pulled the Silver Cross out of his chest.

Daninksy Castle's windows are ablaze
with torchlight; then at night, those horrid screams
that turn to howls. The moon's cold, deadly rays
bring down a curse that only Death redeems,

and that at True Love's hand--so says the lore.
The ancient legends teach no other way.
Look there, where on black velvet Luna hangs!
Tonight the Polish hills run red with gore,
and virgins are not safe from his dread fangs.
He's not that pure at heart. He does not pray.

You can read more of the Vicar's horror sonnets
here.

MORE MADNESS...

Friday, April 17, 2009

Vicar-ious Verse: The Readiness is All

Well, another rough week for updates--blame it on tax time, insomnia, or the fact I neglected to bring my thumb drive to work today. New reviews are coming, but in the meantime, enjoy this bit of b-movie poetry (B-Sonnet?) by the Vicar!


The Readiness is All

I've filed my toenails down to sharpened points
and practiced crawling up the castle walls;
built up my pecs and stretched out all my joints
so I can crazy-walk down darkened halls.

I've spent hours at the glass perfecting glares
and teasing out the gray hairs in my ears;
and I can creep down cobweb-covered stairs
without breaking one strand--that took me years.

So when those teenagers' car has a flat
and they come to my door to use the phone
(my cell reception's nil--imagine that!),
I'll greet them with a polished, chilling groan,

Listen impassively, invite them in--
and then, whoa Nelly! Let the show begin!


You can read more of the Vicar's horror sonnets
here.

MORE MADNESS...

Tuesday, March 17, 2009

Vicar-ious Verse: The Leprechaun

In honor of the holiday, a sonnet I wrote some time ago imagining the darker side of the old Irish legends (as if there were a *brighter* side!). Not related at all to the movie starring Jennifer Aniston, except for the fact that Warwick Davis has already agreed to star in the film adaptation of this poem.


The Leprechaun

The little man slips sly out of the wood
and knocks the dirt clods off his hobnail boots.
Westward, the sun becomes an orb of blood
and creeping shadows blanket hard, gnarled roots;

His coat is road-worn, holes in the elbows;
his tattered trousers: mud-caked as his shoes.
Burst vessels spiderweb his swollen nose;
his face, once jolly, darkens like a bruise.

The bottle in his fist helps him forget
the shame and pain he's left, the stories told
about him in his former village yet:
how he, of all his kind, first lost their gold.

He spies the thief, asleep in his back yard,
fingers the knife, and smiles--this won't be hard.


Nota Bene: if poetry is your bag, the Vicar's alter ego spent a year or so sometime back writing a sonnet every day, many of which were horror themed. The entire project is available for perusal online, though I wouldn't recommend trying to swallow it whole. Maybe just read the horror sonnets by clicking here, and hopefully find something to enjoy.

MORE MADNESS...

Tuesday, December 2, 2008

Murdering the Meme: The Vicar's Alphabet

If you've been checking out some of the blogs friendly to the Vicarage and Duchy linked helpfully in MMMMMovies' sidebar, then you know there's been an alphabet meme going around lately. (And if you haven't been visiting those sites...what the fuck, dude?) The basic idea was to pick a movie title to represent every letter in the alphabet, and post your painstakingly-researched list.

The response was great and encyclopedic. Among many notable efforts,
The Reverend Fred Phantom over at Midnight Confessions offered this estimable entry, Pierre Fournier over at the humbling Frankensteinia offered both a regular and a Frankenstein-themed list, and Empress Kate at Love Train for the Tenebrous Empire amped things up with an all-nunsploitation list.

Well, your ever-lovin' Vicar has never been able to color very well inside the lines, so I picked up the alphabet meme while gleefully ignoring its rules and constructed instead an Amphigorey-style list that only uses an actual title every now and then, in pseudo-poetic form. In my defense--to my knowledge no one tagged me specifically, and hey, I got through the goddamn alphabet, didn't I?

So here goes--not a sonnet this time, but some Vicar-ious Verse in couplet form. Enjoy.



Alaric de Marnac, more evil than sin;
Bladder fx a la The Beast Within;

Curse of the Devil, perfect leap attack;
Diabolik's in Danger, Eva's got his back;

Frankenstein's daughter builds monstrous perversions,
Girl Slaves of Morgana give Gurth fine diversions;

Halloween III, better than I remember,
Inseminoid fucks what he does not dismember;

Jekyll-turned-wolfman, there's one for the ages;
The Karnstein Clan's malady's highly contagious;

Living Dead Girl, such a bittersweet fable;
Meanwhile Malabimba's a little unstable;

Night Train to Terror still has its supporters,
Olaf's sinful dwarfship transcends any borders;

Paul Naschy, the King, with pectorals so mighty,
Queen Hanna
and Russ of the Over-filled nightie;

Stella Star rocks the retracting stilettos,
Tourist Trap's workshop: much worse than Gepetto's;

Uwe Boll's unrepresented here, sadly;
Varla will beat up your boyfriends, and badly;

Waldemar's wolf-form has never been beat,
Doctor X's vengance has fly-traps for feet;

Yutte Stensgaard--Lust for a Vamp, Zeta-One;
Ze do Caixao arrives, and the party is done.

With a Zang and an Eep! and a staticky screen
The Vicar is spent..IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN.

;)

MORE MADNESS...

Monday, November 24, 2008

Vicar-ious Verse: Ode to Coffin Joe

Another in the Vicar's series of sonnets inspired by Mad Mad Mad Mad Movies. Enjoy!


O Novo Mundo Estranho



His staircase is composed of human beings
crouched on all fours, like dogs at his command;
He stretches out to you a taloned hand,
his bearing and composure like a king's;

All round about his head the colors shift--
the world is suddenly liquid and strange;
his thoughts entire geometries derange
and set all moral sanity adrift;

His cape a devil's wings, his eyebrow creased
with fury, his top hat an altar stone
whereon is sacrificed and stripped to bone
your remnant mind, awakening the beast--

So best sit back and just enjoy the show,
in this strange world of ZĂ© do CaixĂ£o.

"Guess who?"

MORE MADNESS...

Monday, November 17, 2008

Vicar-ious Verse: Le Mort du Whitey

Sometimes Mad Movies do more than inspire joy, horror, and reflection--especially for a viewer with the poetic soul of your ever-lovin' Vicar. Sometimes the only way to express the wonder of a particularly meaningful scene is through the medium of poetry. Therefore I present the first in what I hope will be a continuing series of sonnets inspired by the films we celebrate here on Mad Mad Mad Mad Movies. Enjoy.


Le Morte du Whitey
(inspired by Private Parts (1972))


He felt it just before it was too late--
the ozone crackle running up his wrist,
hair rising on his spine--then like a Fate
his tiny rodent brain could not resist
the keys called out to him. Bare copper wire
curled its snake's tongue around the iron ring
and venomed it with lightning, its entire
circumference a trap ready to spring.

And who's to say that something in his head
(approaching Reason) did not see the Grim
Reaper couched there, and knowingly reach up
to take his hand? What future life for him--
the cage of this hotel, Aunt Martha's cup
of tea?

No matter now.

Poor Whitey's dead.


Perchance to dream



Read about the film that inspired this poem: Private Parts (1972).

MORE MADNESS...

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