Old Astronauts

Een animatie van Emma Burghardt, gebaseerd op Tim Nolans gedicht ‘Old Astronauts’.

Old Astronauts

When they get together now—
they nod to one another—
don’t talk about the pitch-
black of airless space—
don’t want to remember
the dust of the Moon
in the treads of their boots—
They fall in bathrooms—
just like everyone else—
but from a greater height—
and before their heads
hit the tiled floor—
they float for awhile—
weightless—seeming to dance
at the end of a cord—
One of them found
Noah’s Ark—or is just
about to—mostly—they
remain dead silent—
Whatever they saw and felt—
lost for generations—it’s that
they were led to believe
they really could escape—
the pull—of the molten core—

Tim Nolan

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Fitter happier

Pablo Iranzo maakte deze korte film bij de song ‘Fitter happier’ van Radiohead.

fitter happier

fitter happier more productive
comfortable
not drinking too much
regular exercise at the gym (3 days a week)
getting on better with your associate employee contemporaries
at ease
eating well (no more microwave dinners and saturated fats)
a patient better driver
a safer car (baby smiling in back seat)
sleeping well (no bad dreams)
no paranoia
careful to all animals (never washing spiders down the plughole)
keep in contact with old friends (enjoy a drink now and then)
will frequently check credit at (moral) bank (hole in wall)
favours for favours
fond but not in love
charity standing orders
on sundays ring road supermarket
(no killing moths or putting boiling water on the ants)
car wash (also on sundays)
no longer afraid of the dark
or midday shadows
nothing so ridiculously teenage and desperate
nothing so childish
at a better pace
slower and more calculated
no chance of escape
now self-employed
concerned (but powerless)
an empowered and informed member of society (pragmatism not idealism)
will not cry in public
less chance of illness
tires that grip in the wet (shot of baby strapped in back seat)
a good memory
still cries at a good film
still kisses with saliva
no longer empty and frantic
like a cat
tied to a stick
that’s driven into
frozen winter shit (the ability to laugh at weakness)
calm
fitter, healthier and more productive
a pig
in a cage
on antibiotics

Thom Yorke – Radiohead

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Insomniac

Het gedicht ‘Insomniac’ van Sylvia Plath is voorzien van beeld en geluid door ‘chloerocks1201’.

Insomniac

The night is only a sort of carbon paper,
Blueblack, with the much-poked periods of stars
Letting in the light, peephole after peephole —
A bonewhite light, like death, behind all things.
Under the eyes of the stars and the moon’s rictus
He suffers his desert pillow, sleeplessness
Stretching its fine, irritating sand in all directions.

Over and over the old, granular movie
Exposes embarrassments–the mizzling days
Of childhood and adolescence, sticky with dreams,
Parental faces on tall stalks, alternately stern and tearful,
A garden of buggy rose that made him cry.
His forehead is bumpy as a sack of rocks.
Memories jostle each other for face-room like obsolete film stars.

He is immune to pills: red, purple, blue —
How they lit the tedium of the protracted evening!
Those sugary planets whose influence won for him
A life baptized in no-life for a while,
And the sweet, drugged waking of a forgetful baby.
Now the pills are worn-out and silly, like classical gods.
Their poppy-sleepy colors do him no good.

His head is a little interior of grey mirrors.
Each gesture flees immediately down an alley
Of diminishing perspectives, and its significance
Drains like water out the hole at the far end.
He lives without privacy in a lidless room,
The bald slots of his eyes stiffened wide-open
On the incessant heat-lightning flicker of situations.

Nightlong, in the granite yard, invisible cats
Have been howling like women, or damaged instruments.
Already he can feel daylight, his white disease,
Creeping up with her hatful of trivial repetitions.
The city is a map of cheerful twitters now,
And everywhere people, eyes mica-silver and blank,
Are riding to work in rows, as if recently brainwashed.

Sylvia Plath

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Andrew Wyeth, Painter, Dies at 91

Tom Jacobsen maakte een korte film gebaseerd op ‘Andrew Wyeth, Painter, Dies at 91’, een gedicht van L.S. Klatt.

ANDREW WYETH, PAINTER, DIES AT 91

A weathered barn on a hilltop; a nude woman
sprawled on the slope
below.

A giant squid rises out of a hayfield, & the barn
is compassed in tentacles
then a cloud of ink.

A man with a fountain pen in his hand
& a pitchfork
in his back

walks the cow-path around the barn
& tells the beauty
on the hill

to step to it. It’s as if her freckled skin
is newly charcoaled
& the hayloft

a smokescreen. The cows can’t be heard for certain
within the inkblot
but deer

creep to the edge of the field on
delicate feet.

L.S. Klatt

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