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Among 20 warring urbane film critics,
The only thing agreed on
Was the bliss of the truly bad movie.
In three classes I was behind,
Like a movie marathon
In which there are three bad movies.
The bad movie moaned in the autumn winds.
It was an orgasmic mirror of the times.
A man and a woman
A man and a woman and a bad movie date
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of Renoir the elder
Or the beauty of his son,
The bad movie opening
Or just after.
Lonely watchers filled the long theater
With barbaric laughs.
The shadow of the bad movie
Crossed it, to and fro.
Traced in the shadow
An improbable joy.
O film critics of America,
Why do you imagine Oscar birds?
Do you not see how the bad movie
Bleats into the ears
Of the pedestrians about you?
I know noble actors
And lucid, inescapable moments;
But I know, too,
That the bad movie is involved
In what I know.
When the bad movie flew out of sight
It missed the edge
Of one of many circles.
At the sight of bad movies
Winning on the red carpet night,
Even the gods of ultra-kitsch
Would cry out sharply.
Hitchcock rode over Hollywood
In a limousine.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his mother-in-law
For a bad movie.
The earth is shaking.
The bad movie must be finishing.
The director didn’t have money for realistic sets.
It was showing
And it was going to show.
The bad movie sat
On its plutonic throne.
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