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About this episode

http://timbarrus.tumblr.comI am the evil one. Whose sense of identity provokes the report from a crazy fool -- those who are beneath contempt -- that those shrouds you wear as hoods covers up all your destructive executions.You. Disillusioned. Shrunk so strangely in our wounds. The repeated patterns and the branches of the trees shimmer in repose as does time.I am the evil one. Whose black eyes scream timelessness in sockets of such a quiet history.I am blameless and serene.What mortal knows himself as to know his fate. What strained and ancient dogs expose their dreams to deep lament.The fanatic cannot change the subject or himself. What you do in the implication of your guilt is supplicate yourself to the broken places and you accept the end and you accept the end and you accept the end.Had we but known that pretending was so precious, we would not so much insist that we endure at the edges of our fear. Where is the rest of me.In continual compliance. I am the evil one. The bad bad seed so quick to let the past come in. The evil one whose malignant eyes see through the absolutes of truth.To nuance.The treacherous shades of light upon the moon so fraught with the soft passing of the earthbound clouds. Whose existence is a savage thing.A crude barrage of hate seeking refuge in whatever it can devour from the inside out. Clawing with my talons through the bellies of the innocent. Crows.The evil one. A gift from god. From what bloody birth is this.From Isis. from Osiris. From Gabriel and his voluptuous cock my mouth his vehement re·cep·ta·cle his chalice my unrelenting pain and taking sleeping pills I swallowed him calling to the sea inside his blood a virus of desire in the flooding of the heart inexorably slipping away through a gruesome reign of terror -- oh, Gabriel -- you, off to the landscapes of our crumbling exile. From Isis. From Osiris. From swallowing disease.From asceticism.I am the evil one. Whose abortions were awkward in this crawling through the soil. Torment is a slamming not so much of fists but doors.But you hang on like death. Like the infants pulled from wombs whose tongues are loosened by the voices collapsing inward, a sacrament of knotting, undoing all the ropes of sabotage.The evil one. A poet in his black robes on his way to the nunneries of ambition and the temples of the weeping whose spread legs give way to the birth of monsters who must be pulled from the cunts of nuns diminished by the glass doors of apathy, oh, pull and pull again; withering away to nothing like a school of idiots where the teachers fear poetry from the ravens of fatigue who sit cawing in the branches of a tree gone mad.Your languages were invented by the old and the pitiful. Wild youth. Overconceived. Hopeless. Garrish with her titty tassles. Suffocatingly technical. Old tongues. Serene. For you have had your life. In communion. In the urinals. In penetration. In controversy. In a butt-fuck where stigma is a mailing-list. In every foreskin the mothers eat whose message we can cut your cocks to our heart's content is heard loud and clear without one hint of sentimentality. In syndromes. In a plastic bag. Still dying in contemporary coincidence.Outlives the dawn on stones. Through which loneliness grows blind not in time but in a rush like heroin thrust excludes impotence from possibility or prison from an acolyte. Absolved by elliptical perfection; a revolutionary act we just go on and on with our dying while the rest survive all of it missing and missing and missing everything but the repeated patterns of the seasons and the trees and the last sounds of surrender and defiance. Filling the days with our darker nights before they erase us and find us out and take our pornographic poems to the burning bonfires of insurrection. Oh, the children, oh, the children, oh, the children with their poignant fantasies of plastic soldiers playing what we think we know what we think we know what we think passes for obscenity in the midst of disillusionment.So. Why. You. Stardust.Why does it all exist and come spilling, speeding down at us and touching carnage and all the other musical wounds we fill so fluently sun to sun. The corridors are lit continuously with a mockery of monuments and men. The darker years are looking back and gaining on us exhausted in the moment. Frail. Lurch. Sing. Stumble. Get drunk. Laugh. Look up. You. Obscene. A shipwreck. Your poetry to grains of sand. Your Longfellow to your Whitman. Your leaves of grass to poems about the ponies and the dew on the clitoris, oh, wet with blood and swollen with the denial of centuries.Burn the witches now before it's too late. Let them melt like candle-wax. Your parents are a total rout. Begetting children and grinding up the pain. The disdainful call them shit holes. Who release and then they stain. The erected boner rise and rise again of institutional and corporate buggery. A placebo for your symptoms, oh, Dr. Martin, I am an evil cocksucking faggot on a collision course with the PTA. For I have fucked all your sons tenderly and I have loved them. What you are afraid of, what scares you into your bones, and bowels is that they might have loved me back, and they did, they loved me back and swooned, and back, and back into the moans of pleasure coming from their anal lips. What tenderness is this. Celebrating whatever we can appropriate of lube and sweat and eating shit. In the deconstruction of identity may you find such fluid fornication. Quick. Call the school board. This must never see the sacred light of play and play and play. Our sons. Our sons. The junkies soaked in AZT will have to pay and pay and pay. I am the evil witch of genderbender whose inner rotten core is bad. All the frozen moments were all your second selves or anyone else had ever had. -- Tim Barrus, Cinematheque Films' Studios, Place Vendome, Paris, France.Class Assignment:Essay: How is the poem in the video different from the poem in text.How is the poem in the text different for Americans that it might be, probably is, for you. Why will Americans object.How are French adolescents who write poetry different from young American poets.Is there actually sex going on in the poem. Or is it just the narrator speaking to issues (AIDS, HIV, IV drug use, identity, gender) that are peripheral to sex.Is the poem pornography. Why.What is your analysis of the poem.Should I pull the poem down if other people publish it on the Internet.Is the poem andromgenous or does it have a sexual slant.How is French culture going to view the poem differently from American culture. Or traditional Islamic cultures.Are French adolescents more sophisticated than American adolescents. Are American adolesents patronized as childish. Should I have kept the poen in French or should I have done what I did which was to make an English translation. At what age do we say there is a cut off point and children younger than the cut off point should not read the poem.What does the poem say about free speech. What is culture.What is art. Is the poem art. Why or why not.Essay due October 1.

• Release Date

  Sep 5, 2009

• Runtime

  08:27