Who knew cantankerous film reviewers could inspire a poem? Russian poet Kirill Medvedev calls them “schizocinephiles” in a poem that is about as long as a particularly arty film but still quite evocative (it’s got characters named Hippo, Toad and Masturbator. Masturbator’s is a lovely, delicate story; with no masturbation in it, in case that’s the reason you were going to click on the link below). Particularly loved this bit:

“I believe
that these are
the fevered specters of art
that speak in declarations
art isn’t this, isn’t that
art isn’t this or that or that
art is a fistfight in the orchestra pit
art is God knows what at this point
art is not, in any case, Verlaine and Rimbaud
in a bar in Belgium
most likely, art is a wife who does not share or partake in
your interests, it’s your young son
an insensitive idiot, cretin
(I remember
when one of my friends was a teen
he wrote
on the wall of his room)
this, this is basically how I imagine it happens:
art is noise, howling, barking
weeping swearing in the foyer.”

More of Medvedev’s poetry here.

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