The Film Critic
The film critic sat sullen-hearted in the suburban all theater wishing it was dingy hard boiled
1970’s decaying metropolitan porno theater instead
There was a time when cinema was real
more real than real itself
reels of reality
restoration of being
resurrecting thought
profound contemplation while jerking off to depressing Russian literature and French
existentialism
amid cowboys snorting coke lassoing used cars at the sundance advertisements and say “no” to
drugs propaganda and sports
the trailers played
which used to be the best part of going to the movies
franchise fatigued
wars in the stars
twilight of the superhumans
stillborn resurrections from days of the future past
toys from decades ago brought back into our neo-retro present chasing fleeting visions future
tense spoiled by demonic nostalgia tainting something once there ever allusive
the film critic couldn’t quite put their finger on it
they packed a gun
fully
intending
on
using
it
fondly reflecting on stolen solitary Saturday nights
lime in a cheap imitation Mexican beer
as short-lived domestic
sipped lightly between bites of frozen pepperoni pizza
a taxi driver flying over the cuckoo’s nest apocalypse now desiring a street car
pale rider rom-coms played on fueling the fault in our stars
hindering true romance for a lack of love
they’d never purchased snacks of this sort before
a slim snap of spicy meat
nut-coated rainbow iced cream
bagged
sticked
unlike Oedipus, there was no mother to fuck
just the incest of greasy engineered populism for entertainment
no kingdom to abandon
but the wasteland
at the zero-hour
at this midnight theater
they broke
movie spectators, half on their phones
glued idiotically to screens
somewhere there
or other
what do you want me to say? You know where this is going…the film critic gouged out their
own eyes from the sheer banality of it all silently screaming having no real voice at all, crimson
flood from sockets soaking where an erection had ever seldom been used
and the quiet vampires
not noticing
lingered
©2023 Mike Zone All rights reserved.
Mike Zone is the Editor-in-Chief of Dumpster Fire Press, co-founder of Deadstar:Control, and manager of the band Tail From the Crypt along with being a producer for the record label Paranormal Vinyl Cassettes Hair Extensions. He is the author of Wonderful Turbulence, Fuck You: A Fucking Poetry Chap, The Earth Was Shaking For Days, Shedding Dark Places. Also coauthor of The Grind and Razorville. A frequent contributor to Alien Buddha Press and Mad Swirl. His work has been featured in: A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Black Shamrock Magazine, Horror Sleaze Trash, Better Than Starbucks, Piker Press, Punk Noir Magazine, Synchronized Chaos, and Cult Culture Magazine.