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Sunday, April 13, 2008
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The Sanguinarian
Independent Feature Film
The Sanguinarian
A drama/thriller centered around Christoph, a suicidal vampire
drifting down through a post-industrial, sensual, and surreal world.
Wending through the vibrant dance at an underground blood bar, where the pseudo-Shakespearean language of the vampires plays out the unfolding
tragedy. It is the heart-stopping and violent diplomacy of the damned,
intoxicating
and
treacherous
and
powerfully seductive.
Black Veil Productions LLC.
Approximately 120 minutes running time.
Unrated. Strong language, violence,
adult themes, nudity, some sexual content.
FALL 2008
4:52 PM
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1 Comments - 2 Kudos
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Friday, January 05, 2007
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Morris Hill Cemetery.
(I wrote this for my wife.)
(Dancing in a graveyard with the moonlight)
Where do you go at night, when silence settles on the teeming masses like a heavy opium fog? When your body cries out to heard? When there is no one to listen and no one to hear?
I go to Morris Hill Cemetery. It is still in heavy moments, fleeting wisps of quiet that grab at my very breath. I walk across the asphalt and onto the hard-pack dirt roads, and the wind gently fidgets with the leaves on the trees. The fresh-mowed grass sighs in a low and continuous lulling, and the scattered sprinklers thrum their wet fingertips across this vast and undulating upholstery.
The stone is silent. Row after row, carved flower after marble angel after elevated urn. Sitting. Still. Expectant.
I can see, by the light of the moon, the great and austere audience that reclines on the fresh-cut dark green fabric of this sprawling hill. I tip my head and draw my hand out across the air, gently, acknowledging the kind and rapt attention.
I begin my dance.
In this theater of pale granite eyes and whispered music, I am without equal. My body is my voice. I am the countess of siren song dancing an opera of the dead. I move beyond words. I turn and rise and lift around with deftness and grace. I speak of my sorrow and then weep in sharp refrain. I speak of my dreams, and hope bubbles from me like water from a strong spring. I move all across the cemetery, and the images of me linger on like the eloquent words of ghosts.
7:41 PM
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2 Comments - 4 Kudos
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Wednesday, September 28, 2005
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Gasoline.
I grew up with gasoline on my hands…
I was born clean, but I was not innocent for long.
I spent time washing engine parts, setting grass fires in the ditch, tuning old carburetors on old jeeps…It Was On My Hands…
I caught the blood when the engine died.
I know its smell and its burn like I know my own breath on a cold morning. Like I know my own blood.
Now, I can’t afford it. I can’t afford to breathe or bleed.
10:11 PM
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1 Comments - 2 Kudos
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