Junkyard Stories

for the late David MacLeod, who shared my love of junk cinema
 
To paraphrase Manny Farber, you can catch them trying to shove art up into the crevices of dreck. - Roger Ebert
  
Who said that plot and character
are absolute in form?
That we must save the cat?
Why do structures known to all
need to structure everything?
Poo to your dictates of true belief!
I’ve nailed my theses
to the door of your church,
and spread faeces
across your nave.
Structure doesn’t save,
obsession does.
We don’t need our hero to be
a tall and doe-eyed lad.
Much rather he
emerge stage-left in cha-cha heels,
a 300-pound transvestite.
Less Luke Skywalker,
more Betty Buttblaster.
And lo, let there be
a strip-club scene for no reason,
where all the men are yaks in suits
and the girls feed them cud
while swinging around their poles.
We’ll call it satire.
And since the fire’s
burning bright,  
let’s have a laser fight
cobbled together with
leftover sets and costumes from
the lots we scavenged last weekend.
Storytelling needn’t be
a creed unyielding,
tethered to
the laws of coherence and taste.
Why should even this poem make sense?
bananaschnitz Cheeseberg of upper lesbia