Frankenstein (1931) trailer

Villagers. Torches. Boris Karloff. What more could you want? Classics like this don’t jump-start my heart every few minutes like today’s horror scares. Instead they wake me up past midnight a week later, whispering softly and letting my brain do the rest of the work… Now that’s scary.

PS. Happy almost-Halloween. Remember, it’s always dark somewhere.



They will rise up

Nowhere nothing not anyone to follow the gaze

the gaze long gone yet still I stare why not where’s

the rest of me to go now I’m gone glaring at

the paving stones why don’t you rise up

why don’t you rise up damn it

the young let to wash old mens’ soles you lie

under hooves and tyrants and when the street

rivers blood shrug it to the sewer you won’t stain

like winter breaking a fall your job is done.


Eye of the Storm video by Lovett

This feels more like a short film with an awesome soundtrack than a music video. The song seems to haunt the story rather than telling it. And it’s dark, my favorite!

Things that become ok again when you have a hand to hold.

Being frightened.


Rain storms.

Leaving the windows open.


Red Rover.

Boring movies.

Long drives.

Nothing at all.

Everything at once.




Being a Capulet.

Or a Montague.


Or Wilde.

Saying yes.

Being rejected.

Not knowing.




Letting go.

And now for something completely different

In the interest of posting something I’ve decided to stray from screenwriting and film-related stuff a little bit. Or, a lot. Here are a few short poems. They’re not new, but this is the first time they’ve seen the light of day! Which would make them as pale as I am…


Ghost Town

It is half night;

A half-moon half hides

In partial cloud

And half the stars are out.

Old half-men half watch

The half-light fade,

Half-lost in half the memories

Of half-lived lives.



 Strapping and strutting

Making noise about nothing

Harsh noises, base nothings


Sticks and stones and

The rockets’ red glare

Worlds filled with targets and



 The Poet

Hold me, my love, I’ve sung all day

And emptied myself too much

What’s left is me:

Solid, weighty, graceless

A trumpeter albatross