Dusan Makavejev’s SWEET MOVIE

The film created a storm of controversy upon its release, with simulated (and unsimulated) scenes of coprophilia, emetophilia, fondling, and footage of remains of the Polish Katyn Massacre victims. The film was banned in many countries, or severely cut; it is still banned in many countries to this day. Polish authorities banned Prucnal from using her passport over the movie, which effectively banned her from entering her native country for a number of years. The film was nearly impossible to find since its initial release in 1974, but Criterion released the film on DVD in a region 1 DVD on June 19, 2007

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THE BEST POEM EVER WRITTEN ABOUT BEASTIALITY
THE SHEEP CHILD BY JAMES DICKEY
Farm boys wild to couple With anything         with soft-wooded trees With mounds of earth         mounds Of pine straw         will keep themselves off Animals by legends of their own: In the hay-tunnel dark And dung of barns, they will Say         I have heard tell That in a museum in Atlanta Way back in a corner somewhere There’s this thing that’s only half Sheep         like a woolly baby Pickled in alcohol         because Those things can’t live         his eyes Are open         but you can’t stand to look I heard from somebody who …  But this is now almost all Gone. The boys have taken Their own true wives in the city, The sheep are safe in the west hill Pasture         but we who were born there Still are not sure. Are we, Because we remember, remembered In the terrible dust of museums? Merely with his eyes, the sheep-child may Be saying         sayingI am here, in my father’s house. I who am half of your world, came deeply To my mother in the long grass Of the west pasture, where she stood like moonlight Listening for foxes. It was something like love From another world that seized her From behind, and she gave, not Iifting her head Out of dew, without ever looking, her best Self to that great need. Turned loose, she dipped her face Farther into the chill of the earth, and in a sound Of sobbing         of something stumbling Away, began, as she must do, To carry me. I woke, dying, In the summer sun of the hillside, with my eyes Far more than human. I saw for a blazing moment The great grassy world from both sides, Man and beast in the round of their need, And the hill wind stirred in my wool, My hoof and my hand clasped each other, I ate my one meal Of milk, and died Staring. From dark grass I came straight To my father’s house, whose dust Whirls up in the halls for no reason When no one comes         piling deep in a hellish mild corner, And, through my immortal waters, I meet the sun’s grains eye To eye, and they fail at my closet of glass. Dead, I am most surely living In the minds of farm boys: I am he who drives Them like wolves from the hound bitch and calf And from the chaste ewe in the wind. They go into woods         into bean fields         they go Deep into their known right hands. Dreaming of me, They groan         they wait         they suffer Themselves, they marry, they raise their kind.


THE BEST POEM EVER WRITTEN ABOUT BEASTIALITY

THE SHEEP CHILD BY JAMES DICKEY


Farm boys wild to couple
With anything         with soft-wooded trees
With mounds of earth         mounds
Of pine straw         will keep themselves off
Animals by legends of their own:
In the hay-tunnel dark
And dung of barns, they will
Say         I have heard tell

That in a museum in Atlanta
Way back in a corner somewhere
There’s this thing that’s only half
Sheep         like a woolly baby
Pickled in alcohol         because
Those things can’t live         his eyes
Are open         but you can’t stand to look
I heard from somebody who …

But this is now almost all
Gone. The boys have taken
Their own true wives in the city,
The sheep are safe in the west hill
Pasture         but we who were born there
Still are not sure. Are we,
Because we remember, remembered
In the terrible dust of museums?

Merely with his eyes, the sheep-child may
Be saying         saying

I am here, in my father’s house.
I who am half of your world, came deeply
To my mother in the long grass
Of the west pasture, where she stood like moonlight
Listening for foxes. It was something like love
From another world that seized her
From behind, and she gave, not Iifting her head
Out of dew, without ever looking, her best
Self to that great need. Turned loose, she dipped her face
Farther into the chill of the earth, and in a sound
Of sobbing         of something stumbling
Away, began, as she must do,
To carry me. I woke, dying,

In the summer sun of the hillside, with my eyes
Far more than human. I saw for a blazing moment
The great grassy world from both sides,
Man and beast in the round of their need,
And the hill wind stirred in my wool,
My hoof and my hand clasped each other,
I ate my one meal
Of milk, and died
Staring. From dark grass I came straight

To my father’s house, whose dust
Whirls up in the halls for no reason
When no one comes         piling deep in a hellish mild corner,
And, through my immortal waters,
I meet the sun’s grains eye
To eye, and they fail at my closet of glass.
Dead, I am most surely living
In the minds of farm boys: I am he who drives
Them like wolves from the hound bitch and calf
And from the chaste ewe in the wind.
They go into woods         into bean fields         they go
Deep into their known right hands. Dreaming of me,
They groan         they wait         they suffer
Themselves, they marry, they raise their kind.

altsex beastiality james dickey Some people look cool with a bow and arrow

JAMES DICKEY VS. BURT REYNOLDS ON THE SET OF DELIVERANCE
From Henry Hart’s biography of Dickey:  The World as a Lie
Dickey insisted on calling Reynolds by his character’s name “Lewis.”  Reynolds recounted in his autobiography how one night Dickey drunkenly started shouting at him.
“‘Lewis, I’m talking to you son.  Now why aren’t you answering me?’
'Lewis, goddamnit, I'm calling ya, boy.  Come over here.'
'Lewis, I'm talking to you, son.  Now why aren't you answering me?'
I said, “Because I’m not Lewis.  I’m Burt Reynolds.  Tomorrow morning at six thirty A.M.  I’ll be Lewis, but, goddammit, right now I’m Burt, so get your big ugly face out of my way.  If you want Lewis, talk to him in the morning when I’m on the set!’
It got real quiet.  Then he knelt down close to me and said, ‘By God, that’s exactly what Lewis would have fucking said!’”
"In private [Dickey] mocked Reynold’s pretensions as a woodsman, his box of thirty toupees, and the lifters for his wolverine boots."

 

JAMES DICKEY VS. BURT REYNOLDS ON THE SET OF DELIVERANCE

From Henry Hart’s biography of Dickey:  The World as a Lie

Dickey insisted on calling Reynolds by his character’s name “Lewis.”  Reynolds recounted in his autobiography how one night Dickey drunkenly started shouting at him.

“‘Lewis, I’m talking to you son.  Now why aren’t you answering me?’

'Lewis, goddamnit, I'm calling ya, boy.  Come over here.'

'Lewis, I'm talking to you, son.  Now why aren't you answering me?'

I said, “Because I’m not Lewis.  I’m Burt Reynolds.  Tomorrow morning at six thirty A.M.  I’ll be Lewis, but, goddammit, right now I’m Burt, so get your big ugly face out of my way.  If you want Lewis, talk to him in the morning when I’m on the set!’

It got real quiet.  Then he knelt down close to me and said, ‘By God, that’s exactly what Lewis would have fucking said!’”

"In private [Dickey] mocked Reynold’s pretensions as a woodsman, his box of thirty toupees, and the lifters for his wolverine boots."

 

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JAMES ELLROY’S KILLER ON THE ROAD IS THE BEST SERIAL KILLER NOVEL EVER AND A GREAT ASS PIECE OF ART
"I stuck my gun in my pocket, bowed and exited like a great actor leaving the stage after curtain calls for a bravura performance.  I had conquered sex and achieved psychic invisibility on the same day.  I was inviolate; I was golden."
“‘Now you’re under the drinking age, so act frosty when the bartender asks what you’re having.  Act gentlemanly with the lady of your choice, tell her a C note is tops, and then pour her the pork till the hogs holler for hell.’”
"The love noises grew more intense, and the words I was able to discern—"yeah," "give it," and "come"—issued from vulgar voices.  it rattled me…To staunch the freeze I turned myself dumb and stared through the beads until I saw two women writhing, friction producing sparks where their nipples rubbed together; two men joined groin to groin…Then all four become one, and I got lost trying to see who was where.  I came then, my hands grasping the beads."
"When streetlights illuminated their faces, I amputated limbs and heads and rearranged the parts; effortlessly, bloodlessly.  And although unable to express the meaning if the act in words, I knew I was evolving three way symbiotic unions that transcended sex."
"I will not let you pity me.  Charles Manson, babbling in his cell deserves pity; Ted Bundy, protesting his innocence in order to attract correspondence from lonely women, deserves contempt.  I deserve awe for standing inviolate at the end of the journey I am about to describe, and since the force of my nightmare prohibits surcease, you will give it to me."

JAMES ELLROY’S KILLER ON THE ROAD IS THE BEST SERIAL KILLER NOVEL EVER AND A GREAT ASS PIECE OF ART

"I stuck my gun in my pocket, bowed and exited like a great actor leaving the stage after curtain calls for a bravura performance.  I had conquered sex and achieved psychic invisibility on the same day.  I was inviolate; I was golden."

“‘Now you’re under the drinking age, so act frosty when the bartender asks what you’re having.  Act gentlemanly with the lady of your choice, tell her a C note is tops, and then pour her the pork till the hogs holler for hell.’”

"The love noises grew more intense, and the words I was able to discern—"yeah," "give it," and "come"—issued from vulgar voices.  it rattled me…To staunch the freeze I turned myself dumb and stared through the beads until I saw two women writhing, friction producing sparks where their nipples rubbed together; two men joined groin to groin…Then all four become one, and I got lost trying to see who was where.  I came then, my hands grasping the beads."

"When streetlights illuminated their faces, I amputated limbs and heads and rearranged the parts; effortlessly, bloodlessly.  And although unable to express the meaning if the act in words, I knew I was evolving three way symbiotic unions that transcended sex."

"I will not let you pity me.  Charles Manson, babbling in his cell deserves pity; Ted Bundy, protesting his innocence in order to attract correspondence from lonely women, deserves contempt.  I deserve awe for standing inviolate at the end of the journey I am about to describe, and since the force of my nightmare prohibits surcease, you will give it to me."

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"I believe in art. We can’t have truth, because truth is so difficult. But we can have beauty. My obsession is to give to you something different. When civilization ends, Greece, Egypt, India—the only thing that endures is art. A country that does not have art despairs. War is not beautiful. Banks are not beautiful. Architecture used to have a lot of style, not anymore. Religion is not beautiful. Politics is not beautiful. What is beautiful now? Tell me. What is beautiful now?"
- Alejandro Jodorowsky (via thatlitsite)

(via persona-nongrata)

CESARE PAVESE’S  THE DEVIL IN THE HILLS
“‘When everyone goes by train, it becomes fun to walk.  It’s a fashion like swimming in the ocean.  Now that everyone has a bathtub, it’s more fun to bathe somewhere else.’
'Speak for yourself, you were the one who went there,' I said.
'What's happened to people?' the father said.  'In my day, only wives were interested in fashion.'”
__________________________________-
“‘I won’t be twenty like you again,’ she said.  ‘But I’m not so old either.’
'The old are born old,'I said.  'No one ever grows old.'”

CESARE PAVESE’S  THE DEVIL IN THE HILLS

“‘When everyone goes by train, it becomes fun to walk.  It’s a fashion like swimming in the ocean.  Now that everyone has a bathtub, it’s more fun to bathe somewhere else.’

'Speak for yourself, you were the one who went there,' I said.

'What's happened to people?' the father said.  'In my day, only wives were interested in fashion.'”

__________________________________-

“‘I won’t be twenty like you again,’ she said.  ‘But I’m not so old either.’

'The old are born old,'I said.  'No one ever grows old.'”

cesare pavese

"Death Will Come" by Cesare Pavese

Death will come and will have your eyes—
this death that accompanies us
from morning till evening, unsleeping,
deaf, like an old remorse
or an absurd vice. Your eyes
will be a useless word,
a suppressed cry, a silence.
That’s what you see each morning
when alone with yourself you lean
toward the mirror. O precious hope,
that day we too will know
that you are life and you are nothingness. 
Death has a look for everyone.
Death will come and will have your eyes.
It will be like renouncing a vice,
like seeing a dead face reappear in the mirror,
like listening to a lip that’s shut.
We’ll go down into the maelstrom mute.

image
Cesare Pavese (1908-1950), a poet, novelist and critic, was a major Italian author of the 20th Century. “Death Will Come and Will Have Your Eyes” was among the poems found in his desk after his suicide. Considering the circumstances, it’s strikingly haunting.

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