ingmar bergman

director, producer, writer

jim carroll

author, poet, musician


They have come to praise the dictator.
arriving spontaniously in pairs
of red and black wagons, a sun tilted over France,
the radio . . . a vulture had scaled the pond.
the current bent toward a sulfer mine . . .
seperate events, though reoccuring previously.
it was a girl . . .
conceived to approve their undertaking. the animals
crawled about licking her porcelain fingers
she hesitated, on burden's pine cliffs . . . her vains
fluttering like the blue flags of the stadium . . .
the gulls . . . coffee . . . she had decided days before
to beguile the ruddy proletariat faces
once they had perfected the manifesto, they would
complete the warlog adding legs . . . though short
and possessing abnormal features around the thighs
the trees stumbled over the unspeakable clumsiness
of night . . . tropical opening of stars . . .
the toucan . . . breakfast. she had delivered a son
that night on the exit steps. he espcaped
under the strain of foresight.
the peoples became alarmed. without manna,
they observed a carnival of gloss over the hill
an energy . . . though not able to nourish . . .
the gypsy . . . . . . . . this was her apparent scheme
to eliminate the benevolent factors,
stimulating helplessness, meanwhile
accumulating arms for the fleet . . . innocence.
she had finally spoken.
the day was obviously a forth of the week.
brown wind . . . parchment exhaling about the countryside
praising the dictator's accomplishment. the record
gave way. flags fell fron the temprid green waters
above the sky. these things were thrust upon her.
she had no control of the paper. there were
boundless substances, like insects . . .
objects without the gift of suicide.
millions of bubbles rising from the musical
instrument. gypsy alone understood.
the superficial became a lie . . . she became
a reality . . . her son remained
inexorably restless . . . days
days . . .*
days . . .*

-Jim Carroll