The blood of a poet

Notes & a maybe poem

What’s it called when you read her and then she’s born, the spider winks, you found an ear but want another, who are you going to be this weekend, I always write about the same thing.

Ok quick.

Last week at PRS I went to a screening of “The Blood of a Poet,” made in 1932 by Jean Cocteau.

I’m writing a story about a girl whose hands won’t stop bleeding, so it felt right. If anyone wants to talk to me about dualism vs monism pls do.

Maybe I wrote a poem during the screening. Maybe I just summarized. The film is good, I recommend it— surreal and surprising and GOT ME THINKING AND FEELING AND WRITING. Ok enjoy maybe.

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During “The Blood of a Poet” (1932, Jean Cocteau)

The painting moves its mouth
and wounds the poet’s hand,
back branded with a star,
he takes off his wig
and in a sink bath
the water gurgles
through stigmata
then morphs into a mouthy wound.

He stares at his bleedy palm all night,
waiting for the speaks,
he throws his arm,
until he hears, “Air.”

The poet breaks the window,
brings the hand mouth to his own,
touches his chest,
then lower.

Every mask has two sides.

Lips
Skin
It’s morning.

His eyes bulge, realizing, frantic,
he wipes the mouth onto a statue,
These walls have ears?
The statue wakes.

“Do you really think it’s that easy to get rid of a wound? ENTER THE MIRROR AND WALK AROUND INSIDE.”

He goes,
splashes the glass
to the hall of dramas.
Through the key hole,
pinned stars smoke gently.
Through the key hold,
a child is punished.

He shoots gravity
and wears a open robe,
Enough.
He jumps against the wall
and dives from the mirror,
cursing the statue,
he bludgeons its head
and everything crumbles.

Splice to snowballs of dust,
the boys smoke on the white steps,
there’s marble in a toss,
blood from his mouth,
they play cards over the body.

The opera goer—
Oh so this is what we’re doing now.
You’re lost if you don’t
have the Ace of Hearts.
Life is documentary.
He had the card,
but an angel intervened.

Another shot spurts
drip onto the stage,
they clap,
the mask hangs on the mantel,
eyes painted open
when she blinks closed.

Charred ox.
Listening to 3 songs at once.
Writing in the dark.
The smoke stack falls.