I am in the middle of a lyric essay project abusing various “B” and exploitation films, horror and science-fiction gems under lyric essay umbrellas to make new meaning, to make more enormous the possibility of what these films could mean, of what they do mean to me.
A film that stuck with me for years and years since seeing it for the first time on Cinemax as a young boy is the Claudio Fragasso (and Joe D’Amato) masterpiece, Troll 2. I even bought a copy of the script from one of the actors. I have it here now, don’t even want to read it for fear of being swallowed by its mysteries.
Today, I revised a flash lyric essay on Troll 2 (to potentially be included in this horror lyric essay project), posted it to Shredded Maps. If you are a fan of the film or someone interested in the possibilities of synopsis-design, creative (re)/(mis)interpretation of film, how film blends with/influences memory, then please enjoy my lyric essay, GOBLINS:
I am at the house—again—to ignore a bag of bread, shell casings; guests stare, gnaw the perimeter like trees that get tangled in your hair when I bring you cake. You are hungry, tossing potato sacks down stairs. Let us sit at the table and wonder, we can conjure how to stop time. Rum raisin is not my prayer. You would know this if you didn’t fall asleep on street corners or use your belt and stave hunger, stay the father. I once saw my grandfather come out of the mirror. We built molotov cocktails in the bedroom and set priests on fire—the driveway is where goblins burn. Humans burn. Priests burn. We know how young men run through forests and drink milk, become branches or paste for maidens to eat. We hobble around the camper. I’ve brought popcorn and corn cobs for us to suck until we explode in gorilla suits with pink star-trails and organ flare. It’s not enough—melt. It’s not enough—save my mother from eating an apple. I’ve taken showers in green, hid under covers and shoo away teen boys who feign love for girls who take trips in vans to Nilbog. My grandfather is an angel. Goblins don’t exist. Repeat. This is not your kingdom of shadows. This is Provost in hell. We are a modern family: the van, sunlight, clover leaves and pianos lure mouths open—this is about not eating food. And if we speak, we shut our eyes to hear. And if we scream hard enough, our family just might sprout magic windows and stones of love. Press your hand against the stone. Press your hand against my heart of ham. Feel blood run. I’m made of sap, leaking son.
Other works in this series:
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