Manuel Arturo Abreu, 3 poems

UNTITLED (HUSBAND)

 

A certain angelic fury overtakes the window.
Like cake’s glow, perturbed by waifish eyes.
The shot: vertical fisheye pan. Mood: fake gnosis.
Out the window an eyebrow of daft fog falls.
Cutaway: someone in a shirt that says “CONCEPTUAL SHIRT.”
Dog waits by window for husband to return from war,
knowing its mother was right: all times are end times.

 

 

UNTITLED (FILM)

Meta-horror movie with
those long, lusty shots like
in Antonioni’s La Notte. I
wanted to rewatch that the
other day but forgot and
moved on because I had
lots of tabs open. The slow
dissolution of the curdled
concept. The movie is
about the horror of the
possibility that sharing
Facebook content is the
strongest articulation of
your artistic practice. There
should be some low-angle
shots of smoky boardroom
meetings, where hooded
men plan shadowy new
decentralized social
networks. But the film
should be shot only with
natural light, particularly
screenglow. It should be
called He Has Left Us
Alone But Shafts of Light
Sometimes Grace the
Corner of Our Rooms…

 

 

FROM MY LIVEJOURNAL, 2007

 

My country is not beautiful. It is torn from inner and outer wars. It
fiscalizes emotion, coerces its citizens to work like numbers for a
system that produces the differences defining the hate between
them. The power goes out often, so we cannot love. This is not a
cleansing poverty of stimulus; it does not lead to any generative
organs without bodies. It leads only to a chess game for wolves.
People spend their money on things that don’t matter. The faces we
see are the faces of a broken future. Whatever comes after hope bends toward us as if we were arrows. This is why it is said I speak like a white person. This is no one is ever too old for make-believe. This is why dawn is out of tune in the megaphone heart.

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