The Fly
Twentieth Century Fox., 1958
man with insect head says “kill me”
wife (hesitates &) does (twice)
maybe thinking I love you
but this one’s for the cat
fly with a man’s head
little fleck of painted flickers
like a prop from the novelty shop
says “help me” &
the Inspector good-natured though he seems
squashes using a garden rock
he’s not prepared to ask questions
not seeking kinship with the strange
this was supposed to be about fear
of science—
split atom & destroy the world
supercolliders cause black holes
—but modern times infest the narrative
reminding that cops are cops
even with the best intentions &
wives
though they might adore
reject earrings ponytails & sports cars
cry against signs of transformation—
change a salve that cuts the skin it soothes
Plan 9 from Outer Space
Reynolds Pictures, 1959
We come to the credible edge:
we, Earthmen, dangerous
because there exists a weapon
so great we haven’t thought of it yet.
Not the wobbly hubcaps hovering,
not the zombie wrestler in a suit—
we are monsters, biding
like supervolcanos that might (or not)
erupt in the next ten thousand years.
I love how that snobbish spaceman
stops to explain the bomb,
so now we know.
We’ll seek it until light becomes fire &
the universe melts,
seek it until nothing’s left
but the nothing from which all else came.
That’s real horror taking place
off-screen. On, at least,
the old man stops to sniff a flower:
one last pleasing act before he dies.
Westworld
MGM, 1973
orgies jousting & wild west
the things a man loves
until they kill him
like cigarettes & whiskey
would you go in spite
of knowing? I would
to play the anonymous
bandit black knight
Caesar pampered
in his garden of delights
let’s chance a spark
in the motherboard &
ice-eyed Yul
no longer loading
his Colt with blanks
to be childlike
in adult fantasies
we don’t need to risk
our deaths to live
but face them
Madhouse
American International Pictures,
Amicus Productions, 1974
Feels so good to be the bad guy
even the one who wasn’t wants it.
Well, don’t get cocky, Slick.
The taste of blood’s like licking
an old pipe, the feel of it
like lukewarm latte in your palm.
There’s a crooked line between
violence & art. Besides,
once you’ve murdered all your friends,
who’ve you left to talk to but yourself?
Ace Boggess is the author of two books of poetry: The Prisoners (Brick Road Poetry Press, 2014) and The Beautiful Girl Whose Wish Was Not Fulfilled (Highwire Press, 2003). He is an ex-con, ex-husband, ex-reporter, and completely exhausted by all the things he isn’t anymore. His writing has appeared in Harvard Review, Mid-American Review, RATTLE, River Styx, North Dakota Quarterly and many other journals. He currently resides in Charleston, West Virginia.
Check out his new poetry book The Prisoners here.
Cover Photo: “Cruel Cop” by Bob McNeil