Yea, and I rise—
each breath an act of love.
Blacula (1972). Rocky Horror (1975). El Planeta (2021).
To our list, add Lou, too — his story eerily lesson-like, and relates —
though different, certainly, in its affect.
Gay nightclub noise bands formed
to silence Lou’s committee in head.
Enter John Cale, ex-Welshman
Radio tuned to foreign broadcast.
Artists escape to
New York at midcentury’s end.
Andy’s Film School
15-20 movie houses:
Very high spiritual states.
Long sustained tones.
Study of drone.
And along comes
Lou’s Syracuse buddy
Jack Smith, Tony Conrad.
The drone of Western capitalism:
By Dream Syndicate Dazzled
By Dream We Dream
PS I LOVE YOU
To catch an evening screening of you, I hike downtown.
ahead of me.
sit side by side
whispering in the dark.
“‘Tis my new favorite movie!” I tell myself:
made with masks all the more thrilling.
Plants kick in and
Chasing happiness by my side.
A book called Realizing the Impossible called out to me the other day, the title resonating with a phrase I’d recalled in an email the day prior. A friend had recommended an article commending the importance of utopian visionary thinking in times of crisis. I replied with a line of Che Guevara’s spraypainted on the walls on the streets of Paris during May ’68: “Be realistic — demand the impossible.” Opening the book, I came upon an interview with late 60s acid anarchist Ben Morea, central figure in New York freak-left political-art groups Black Mask and Up Against the Wall Motherfucker, as well as — to my surprise — a later, short-lived collective called International Werewolf Conspiracy. The name pricks up one’s ears, does it not? For a short time in the late 60s and early 70s the group made and printed posters and manifestos. They’d pass out leaflets to fellow heads on the streets. Morea was friends with Valerie Solanas, author of The SCUM Manifesto. Morea wrote a pamphlet in support of Solanas when she shot Andy Warhol, an act shunned and disowned by the rest of the left and the art world. There’s a character based on Morea in the 1996 film I Shot Andy Warhol. By 1969, he was heading the International Werewolf Conspiracy. The group’s broadsheets amplify the gothic element in Marx and Engels. The specter evoked in the first sentences of The Communist Manifesto has given way to a pack of werewolves birthed when American youth drink the era’s “magic potion,” LSD. These werewolves are thus in origin a bit like Frankenstein’s monster — one of capitalist science’s Faustian lab experiments gone awry. The pose strikes me as pure Attentat. Then again, maybe it’s just an American “horror-show” version of épater la bourgeoisie: an attempt to shock the middle class out of its complacency as the country transforms into Nixonland.