[See it Through] a poem

Giving up on love is volunteering
to die a slow death
everything in me
wants all that is you
leaning against this cold world,
I’ve grown numb to the bone
& as your warm press
becomes an earnest compress,
the cold is fading,
nothing holds together the fractures
& shatters;
I admit,
I’ve come apart
& have become a mess,
needing swept up



Dontrell Lovet't
from, [The Failed Writer] 

[In a Hypothetical World] a poem

            In the hypothetical world,

everything’s possible,

even possible is this colossal

misadventure to fold back on

itself,

gift us respite,

as we’ve never should have been to

this extent-

-shower-shunned still still nights,

flourished-envy, deeply dark,

mysterious in the intense clarity

knowing we’ve had our share of love,

affairs, love affairs running course long

after receiving a poor prognosis, locomotive

till tomorrow rolls forward,

directly over our beaten path,

and questions arise between us,

as numerous as stars rearranging their

next elliptical,

then the you inside,

the you everyone supposes

acclimates to those suppositions,

planets peering from behind cloud cover,

taking on titles unsuited if only to suit a

more viable presence-

we cannot take into each other each other

when those fragments aren’t indivisible,

individuals defiant, crying in a sad life as everyone

visible sadness has contaminated everyone visible-

-so shall we become invisible?

and will we fall into terminal despondency,

make still our motion as to attract no eyes

in motion?

Always, reckonings punching themselves

out, tiresome the wait will become darling, as

a fighter’s punch is always the last to go.

-Dontrell Lovet't

from [UnderStudies]

[Delta Deep-Sleep] a poem

Fire is the universal,
modern text;
It burns,
scolds,
saturates itself,
molten liquid into the worn hole,
the hole of the mind,
bottomless &riotous,
round-a-bout roaming,
jacking all trades,
mastering none
If we are with a
nobody who wants to be a somebody,
we dream steady;
a somebody with a desire to be
someone else,
we dream as vague
as the passing of a single instance






Dontrell Lovet't
from, [The Failed Writer]

[Rubbish-love] a poem

In the fore-flesh
of your foreground,
is this man,
Antaeus,
dirt on your knees,
slithering around my stick
like a snake
something awful,
this infatuation for the
unfortunate fallen
be it not for you,
in gratitude,
the fallen would be
without all pleasure



Dontrell Lovet't
from, [The Failed Writer]

[Seek Elsewhere] a poem

Misery floats a mendacious dramatist,
stepping in,
hearing the steps to climb,
step, then the echoes around empty streets
turning back seems just as
hard as going on,
an affinity of awaiting kisses
as spectators anticipating to report
a crime to be committed at any moment
dry lightning,
pie-in-the-sky science,
a-top- a warning never to love
someone who makes the pen & paper
their bread & butter
maybe you can manage,
the utmost, undreamable,
unremarkable damage,
long showered like the mudd-puddled
smiles men smile when undergoing a
terror of transformation,
a terraform of hopes & dreams,
a gain if nothing against an
all-knowing chaos under literary construction,
very well to provide the
blueprint as to how you’ll
become infatuated with your
coming cause of death



Dontrell Lovet't
from, [The Failed Writer] 

[Shys] a poem

We all reserve a residual shy,
a purposeful shy,
visually, hideously, unequivocally,
a palindrome,
given & taken,
wrapped & bare
There are two of us,
you know,
all too into ourselves,
apprehensive
only one of us is aware



Dontrell Lovet't
from, [The Failed Writer]

[Heart/Apart] a poem

It’s scary to scatter
your heart into different directions,
unknown, unsure,
under-sided cohorts,
blasting patterns;
so I gorge myself with the
fading dim,
unrecorded light as it’s presenting,
tribute the decomposition to
the response of what then becomes the
“cry-wolf.”

-tasting the badly learned,
the sweetness of seasoned split peas,
wind-combed harvests,
arm-full symbols of eternity;

Now the fissures summoned,
perpetrated are adequately understood,
power and magic in majestic contortion



Dontrell Lovet't
from, [The Failed Writer]

[Veins Vacant for Rent] a poem

Maybe something unsociable,
unpleasant,
unreliable,
is alive in these pages;
uncertain, hesitant pen strokes
are the sure exception

I recreate adrenaline,
a rush to the hypothalamus,
an artificial petulance,
as wild & potent as the smile
of the smitten,
silver & remembered as those
lost to us still breathing next to us

The body pleasurably becomes
a pleasure addict once deflowered
& the broken hymen of the mind minds not
a bit of pain with the titillating touch



Dontrell Lovet't
from, [The Failed Writer]

[The Nominal Side] a poem

Only the hand
which has imprisoned me
can set me free,

I’ve grown into an
existence predicate on a
promise of contingency;
If the true love of her
life happens to not be the
love of her life she believes him
to be,
she’ll call me,
& not a single instance prior
will a single inquiry from me will be a desire
these hands are too shaky
to reciprocate promise,
to await a moment come too late,
not soon enough,
or not at all;

Every passing moment
is a moment I’ll write
& every book I’ll write,
will gradually kill me a bit more
The day you call,
is the day I’ll already be as
good as a dead man



Dontrell Lovet't
from, [The Failed Writer] 

[The Comings & Goings] a poem

A delight,
how the most temporary,
the shortest-lived
bear longevity,
running a road father than
say consistency
hunger compels the
consistent preference to have a taste,
then a marvel of timing
hatches the incubating past,
stirs panic in the midst of sleep,
a chastising chill on awakening,
alone



Dontrell Lovet't
from, [The Failed Writer] 

[Love & Grapple] a poem

The night is deepening
& mechanical life begins to lack attraction

A come-to-soon
to an unattractive place,
voices through all artificial larynx,
more tortured than a catapulting
fear of words,
irritation teeming with every shot
of dialogue;
& we just begun to argue,
love combating love



Dontrell Lovet't
from, [The Failed Writer]

[Ephemeridian] a poem

How does it work?
The one who wants only the
physical you reigns over the one
who desires the whole of you?
Apparently,
an apparent juxtaposition exist,
between the simple
& the intricate;

A simple man is brutally primitive,
knowing only his primitivism,
unfamiliar with any dreams beyond
The intricate,
intense, almost hindered by his analysis
paralysis, demands, possesses hands willing
to be bloodied if murder indeed
reveals itself the method to equate
what dreams haunt him
& what dream-likeness is absent
when he’s awake


The wish to live day to day appeals,
prevails,
more than a dreamer willing to pull you
into the hereafter,
a limitless man,
devout, dangerous, dosed to
delirium for a love he knows all too
well doesn’t belong to him


Dontrell Lovet't
from, [The Failed Writer]

[Unparticular Interruptions] a poem

Even if this room was
without interruptions,
surfacing myself to
affirm flight is a
reality the Josephine every
woman tends to host in their
hearts have scuttled;


Due to remorse,
a new mind I’d never mind,
complete, minor a universe
stirring every absurd intervention
to any single hollowed matter,
the future lies below,
bitter blackberries danced over
by every upright rattle
loosening their hooks to
winter winds,
tinged discs
dying when night falls
& no longer visible to lie
every hope struggling to
stray upon



Dontrell Lovet't
from, [The Failed Writer] 

[All the Fuckboys Therein] a poem

Some weeks later,
some weak laid her

& nostalgia of those days
of fuckboys warmed
in to put her to restlessness

great minds don't fuck alike,
they weep alike,
senseless casuals 
sowing sperm unlearned
in swimming out of circles,

learn to the path to joy,
is to think less of enjoyment.




Dontrell Lovet't
from, [Blotted Etches]

[The Continuum of Film] a byline

by Dontrell Lovet't
from, [PsychoNeuroFilmography]





            Scenes overlap, sequences invert, a few minutes are capture to relative vastness, relative relation to human reality, transformation, transgression and transmogrification; the film is then relevant.

            The original purpose of the motion picture was to enhance the art of photography. Somewhere in the silent film era, film begin to serve its own purpose, seek its own means to an end beyond the stillness of captured moments.

            If “the entire purpose of life is that there is no definite purpose other than to be and become” then the clarity that film can hold serves in a flank, innuendo to a detached reality, another dimension taken from the image of man and given over to the image of the artist.

            The theory of film’s self-recognition, self-awareness is perhaps a preface to the effectiveness of the French New Wave. When the motion cinema was still on its course of evolution, filmmakers were in tandem step, not only with the becoming of technology but with the parallel creation alongside literature. The adaptation of obsolete and obscure novels became the inspiration for screenwriters, for auteurs seeking to not only advance man’s perception of this world but challenge film as it was known.

            Francois Truffaut, the French filmmaker and critic, noted for his 1951 classic “The 400 Blows” was as feared an arbiter of the new wave as Roger Ebert was in the 20th and 21st century. “A poet must be cruel to be kind;” in such a notion, both Truffaut and Ebert begin to “bury” mediocre and monotonous film in the hopes that filmmakers may develop into auteurs, to lose the fear of the leap, take a chance to experiment rather conform, thus cease catering to the public’s paradigm image of what film was and begin defining from the terror of the heart and mind what film could be.

            The true splinter in the public image of mainstream and pornographic film came with the release of Just Jaeckin’s 1974 controversial film “Emanuelle,” adapted from the novel by Lowell Blair, that depicts a young lady in Paris who flies to Thailand to discover her sexual identity. Despite offending and violating mainstream obscenity laws in modern nations, Emanuelle was a success, not solely due to its vivid, sexual imagery but its solidity, which was harvested from a salon of artist unafraid to push the set limits of the time. Though dismiss by most critics as obsequious pornography, Emanuelle is underrated as one of the films to shape-shift the world of film today and is the grandmother of fearless filmmakers the world over.


            If film ever fluctuates in depth, it is because the filmmaker lacks depth and courage, forfeits themselves the full scope of dimension that art is. The attitude of film shapes the attitude of the public, but the public wanders if filmmakers fear to roam in directions never before roamed, adapt novels never before adapted, take the time to understand fully what has been consistently dismissed.

[Union of Tragic-Comedy] a poem

-before we fall into what
always ends an amour fou,
first, you must accept that this life
revolves around constantly a balance,
the tragedy and the comedy;
for you, this entanglement soon to
invite the two of us deep into the
center of each other,
will prove more tragic for you,
still, less comic for my
dis-benefit .This great war that rages,
feeding both sadists living
well between the crevice dis-spirit,
will do either of us any good;
what else then to do than ride
out this storm, unnerving us
like Saplings roots tearing against
their desperate, fate-knowing
woes. 

At what point did man decide that
one skin color outweighs the next?
Why precisely is it that a woman with
a barren womb, a man without
endurable seeds always seem
to shoulder great sadnesses within them?
We may desire the same desire beneath this
identical flesh of texture, opposed of
shade, never escape the heavy drench of
the fertilization which lost its very
spindle to become all what has
never been found, or have never been,
in us-


-draw on this tragic smile to poorly conceal
this father never-to-be, then retract,
fold back onto yourself,
we hear-tell by so many before us,
who've ventured this stretch of
not a single respite away from
swelter,
it is a patch,
that only lengthens if
we refuse our union,
then said, become the third
fate, who cuts what is first spun,
then after measured-



Dontrell Lovet't
from, [Just a Body]

[We'll Always Have Cole Porter] a poem

[We'll Always Have Cole Porter]


-fuck, again,
those vermin neighbors disturb
the hour;

Why exactly did I decide to house
my study juxtaposition to festering,
pledging frat brats?

In my zeal to be free of a much
too loud family, I stepped into
a hornet sting, truly, I cannot claim

I altogether have ever hated-
-your fingering through the vinyls
cease, Cole Porter's voice rises
in gradual hymn,
you turn those feline eyes
towards me, as mine decided
venturing your direction has always
served best why not?

If Cole Porter suggests it,

"Let's fall in love."



Dontrell Lovet't
from, [Just a Body]

[In Keeping Cautious Love] a poem

In love,
this one particular,
the grasses lean as pushed by a unvarying
drift of wind, below four lights from
every corner of the earth above the
mirrored sea-

-it is of nobody else's affair,
the informal nettle, nestled
a-slight enough to skepticize
other lives you've have yet to
trust with no regard-

-and for crying,
even the whimper you keep for yourself,
sighs selfishly dictated by learned restraint,
undoubted caution, inasmuch the weak,
so abundant, so abound, is the
consistent focal of cannibals,
devout to the savage belief,
to devour anothers' flesh may/can
be the answer to continuum,
till such time the fountain of youth
prevails in pharmacology



Dontrell Lovet't
from, [Just a Body]

[I Can Love You All] a poem

There is an encourage of this one,
the discourage of that one; both which
makes an equidistant of culpability and
a third victim-

-it is surprisingly intoxicating,
to keep women on the run, as
a piece unfinished still proves sharp
and acidic, vibrantly alive, hilarious
in its specific tragic-comic sort-

-to hear those adored women share
something of themselves gives a ghost
of white tangled in the most awful;
always, I am reduced to watching their
hands, their mouths, decoding the beloved
feminine alignments, terribly distracted,
swooning into pale blue drowned up-aboves,
a tortured heroine, failed Prince so removed
from the finality to reach a life-desired throne
murder becomes him, becomes crafted method-

-staring down the self-induced squish between
two so magnificent decision is indecision,
but with all bright, fortunately distant,
thrilling senses of wildness and freedom
pacifies, swept heroics from a Greek poem
romanticizing love and battle through their kisses comes a communicable
radiant warmth, life, the surrendering second-by-second
entirety of aloneness-

-to enthrall additional passer-byers,
the liberal indifferent, feminist deconstructionist,
Persian women who pull aside their Hijabs just
enough to expose a bit of silken, jet black hair,
inviting the utmost affronting men propelled
by biology,
they too are very dear to me the very same;
If they are noticing me, I too, surely, have
begun to notice them, dreamily musing,
in hopes to manage to dream myself directly
into a dead fall, survive, to exclaim about
the wonder of survival-

-for all, excluding none of those ladybirds,
this constitution is a great worry, bothersome,
as they fear to induce any available shock waves
in case those waves startle me away;
impossible; so as this character is a fixed one,
abandoning those nearest is an impossibility;
subjective in deficit, sleep in frequency
becomes too an impossibility,
the night,
allotted, lengthy stretches,
contemplation, frightfully astounding,
pages drafting proofed improbability,
foolish elocution,
open to opportunistic lovers,
with initiative, they discover the sole
chance I'll aid them in digging a claimed
place in the boneyard-
- another terror that details will be so
magnetized (?) a trip of the trigger makes
the deadened, hopeless areas in this man
deep malignancies corrode so surgical cure
cannot intervene-
finally, their (those many beloved, past, present, future)
dreadful visitation, in pressure, nausea, thrumming in the
airless study, easily making all social claustrophobic
and uneasy, inevitably furrows skepticism;
the ideal of me dissolves for the better,
anxious, steel-spine frailty, with rattled sighs,
ragged breaths, horrendous complexity,
of when loves implies irrationality;
everything is emptier in the fluctuating chatter,
lost becomes the mainstay vibrancy of our voices,
crushed of full delicacies, wings clipped so finely
regeneration aborts repair
& the whole lady you've come to me as,
departs in fragments,
leaving the pieces,
from the first moment,
I desired most-



Dontrell Lovet't
from, [Just a Body]

[By Her; By Him] a poem

What you feel,
he more than likely,
may not feel,
may failed to ever feel-

-those missed opportunities,
no longer of value to be cashed in
to companion,
are re-lived at least a few minutes,
of everyday since their dusting,
the ashes,
wayward, carried, then dropped
into the accumulating rest,
once upon a time too missed chance,
value may mean to you, what it doesn't
mean to him, or may ever be recalled by
him-


Dontrell Lovet't
from, [Just a Body]

[Those Discarded Letters] a poem

The handwritten letters 
I wrote to my unborn daughter were
discarded to a bonfire,
the very bond represented in a third-degree scar
on the base of my left leg;
the penmanship is far from legible;
nevertheless, no obscure thought can
convince me otherwise,
that she has no need to read
the redundant expressions,
felt from the dimension,
where I'll see her again-



Dontrell Lovet't
from, [Just a Body]

[On Belief] a poem

Moments where you'll become disgruntled with me are
incidentally inevitable; but whatever you do,
never lose belief in me,
if you can help yourself-

-yes, of course, belief in self in itself is quite a difficult feat,
much less upholding an unrevealed significance, without limb,
withholding something unspoken between us-

-in aloneness, fatigue chronically rears;
within love, exhaustion never accumulates,
can never accumulate, so greatly as to stumble
forthrightness, startle an unnerved belief invoking
a living-god glow from your very collaboration-

-even if the love you've given me,
the lifeline nearly indestructible will,
i'm sorry to confess,
fail to keep this mind from the thought
of all those lovers before you;
you are the day to the night they are
captive in; the counter-balance necessary
if I am to be what I've longed failed to be-



Dontrell Lovet't
from, [Just a Body

[Be Mindful] a poem

-because I am perpetually honest,
truth-tipped spearhead,
never believe if I am blunt,
I am without care of your emotional
response. You can go through all our days
intertwined ,drastically ignoring
every other sentence spat from
the exact orifice which seduced
you when first we met;
the seldom statements, the only
few, I implore to be regarded;

"However anyone plays it, I play it straight,"
along equally "I don't respond well to that."
As I twirl round, cocooned
in blessedness, where next to me, you
inhabit the larger coddling womb,

I cannot even fathom a day where
trust entrusted to you will be shattered,
shattering us,spilling the fragments to
a mess, an impossible puzzle,
a Penrose Triangle;
and if we are to part from
that posthumous trust,
know that I reserve the pretentious
principle overruling all others,
of never having fucked you over
Everyday I fear the return of that
possession of genius, strolling
arrogantly as the blues into the
heart of the hamlet;
that melancholic blues itself,
in its inmost self,
is bearable in small doses,
as I don't respond well when
it takes to its own direction,
lingering rather swiftly passing over,
overwhelming the light,
failing in fade,
unable to puncture much more,
with a blade dulled and broken
at its tip.


Dontrell Lovet't
from, [Just a Body]

[Bartering Bargain] a poem

No individual,
not even the one socially labeled the lowest,
nor the one who feels they are worth only that
social inequity,
should sell themselves below worth;
for you,


I'll sell myself even below bargain,
and if you shall disclose beforehand or
display afterwards, sole intentions to use
me up, below bargain still is the price
set preferentially for you-



Dontrell Lovet't
from, [Just a Body]

[Not All Are So Perilous] a poem

-because I have no lover
and no lover has love for me,
how easy I find those reckless dares,
placing life endanger,
all the same,
giving life its significance-

-not all my days are littered
with adrenaline rushing dopamine;
some are simple-

-the other night, stopping in
at a bar, I saw a lady sitting alone;
I ordered a drink, tipping the bartender
to ensure anonymity was kept;

-for the next half hour,
the pleasure of watching her
flush blush, smiling, on her
phone, I imagine she was updating
her girlfriend on the going-ons,
beginning the lush,
leaving her well loose, open
for the man who isn't this man,
to buy her a second-



Dontrell Lovet't
from, [Just a Body]

[Askew Evolution] a poem

How funny it is,
how easily us men can come to
accept our imperfections;
a woman,
she'll fight those imperfections,
if not for her own volition to overcome
it in self-improvement, to grapple
with the competing next woman-


-the how funny, too, it is,
that beauty attracts to preserve the species,
denoting the man's instinct to be noticed,
the woman's need only to be detected


-too, do we humans evolve,
not towards the growing obligation
for man to court, rather towards the
woman's essential need to persuade
the court,
if indeed, in today's effete reality,
man has lost his instinct to compete,
that necessity to court,
lies await, in contra,
until the woman persuades his
rise-



Dontrell Lovet't
from, [Just a Body]

[Ciao Manhattan, 1972] film review

[Ciao Manhattan, 1972]




by Dontrell Lovet't
from, [PsychoNeuroFilmography]








Director John Palmer & David Weisman







Perhaps the most chilling account of a downfall, told in the voice of Edie Sedgwick herself, the 1972 short film "Ciao Manhattan" is a haunting prologue just before a fatal addiction would take the life of perhaps the greatest underground actress of the 60's and 70's. With accounts of a unadvised pregnancy, inhibitions from the time of losing her virginity, to hospitalization in psychiatric treatments, falling love and giving energy to what led to a mere insanity.

 Sedgwick, who derived from a prestigious family, desired to live, live the pulse of the people, the cause of the time. Her black and white portrait given in Ciao Manhattan, partial documentary, partial interview, known sieges laid to her during many of her films with Andy Warhol, notably, [Poor Little Rich Girl, ]. A beautiful girl who never knew she was beautiful, she hid herself under addiction and club dim lights and the subculture of homosexuality to feel the beauty she yearned for. Footage of her displays a woman alive during the days, radical in the nights, vague sleep and the days return in their monotonous, viral ways. Amongst her liveliness, was the haunts of the suicide of two of her brothers which gave over to Sedgwick's eventual self-destruction. Her quote about blossoming into the scene, into a "healthy young drug addict," gives the account of a woman who wasn't interested in her own self-destruction though it was the scene and she who imposed it on herself.

 Sporadically, the interviews return, followed by silent moments of her responses muted out, only her body language and lips telling the tale as that of the orient theatre. Darkness of the reel also is used to tell the tale of Sedgwick, her discussions with photographers and filmmakers reveals Edie's very versed knowledge of filmography and had she lived on, she could have made more of what her family believed was a terrifying ideal. Though she mentioned that her family would "endorse modeling 100 times over before entertaining the idea of her in films," Edie loved the Warhol idea of people buying her life in motion. There was no need for scripts, no need for ideas, nor need for scenes; Edie had grown out of what most actresses would need to appeal to the public- her life within itself was an unrehearsed script given over to the desires, the curiosities of the movement, of the public's rendering at the time. It was Warhol who gave her the true notion that if her life was interesting enough, people would go on and believe in her, that very life and continue to be influence and magnetized to her condition. That very idea came with a drastic price, an exact price that Edie would have to pay and many stars before and after her had also been in debt to.

 If the relationship with Warhol went sour, severed on bad terms, it was because Warhol took advantage of her love to make art with her life, with her body and her blossoming day's over. It was from Warhol that she grew out of as well as she did scripts (that she still felt she needed.) Warhol experimented, and as he did, Sedgwick continued to reach and grasp. Her use of drugs gave her the notion to trip out of many life and begin to live another after the binge ended its distortion. "You live alone, creating your life as you go. You only contend with two things; yourself and other people."

Sedgwick's life was a tiresome, fanciful one, living in a dream can be an exhausting plight for the dream world isn't our world- there is a cost to live there. Drugs were the channels to reach the nirvana she believe would take her from one life to the other, from one day to the next. If any fault lied in the life of Edie Sedgwick, it was her mishap of overdose, forfeiting the world of her beauty and brilliance.

[I've Never Owned a Dog] a poem

I'm a dog lover,
but I've only had a cat and a squirrel;
Balthazaar, as a kitten, caught my eye;
as I approached to cherish those eight
total newly bred, seven fled, she,
just as alert, maybe even more so,
instead pounces onto my leg.
Trail Mix fell from a tree;
Mary, who no longer considers me
a friend, cornered me with stereotypes
of the minority opting cowardice rather
fatherhood,
good for a laugh,

and I would have felt such a tickle,
had I not been bombarded by
other women within ear-proximity;
I took on fatherhood, placed her
in a box, agreed to split custody,
naming her "Trail Mix," what another
woman was feeding her when we
arrived,
taking her for her first father-daughter
stroll-



Dontrell Lovet't
from, [Just a Body]

[Earned Age] a poem

[Earned Age]


Age, amongst those various, commonplace fears
discussed by the vain alive, is anticipated in the merely
life of mine.

Age is earned, too, it,
coupled with scars,
is the only needed representation,
bold & unquestioned,
that the way to survive to see another day
 has been accomplished
 to continue is to confront struggle,
offer a bloody, lingering and simple conflict;
one desires the take, the other desires the stay-



Dontrell Lovet't
from, [Just a Body]

[A Living For Us] a poem

Mon bien-aime,
you've finally returned from making
a living for us,
rose-petal sweet,
joyous and blindly culpable,
readily willing to give your
words of adoration to a novel
you are unaware has been pocketed,
the very novel without a title-

-and back finally in this bed we
share, these arms which have given
you a home within a home,
indulge recklessly, as an unanimously,
unspoken truth between us,
heavily convincing that the world,
in all its marauding merriment and
marveling moments, has finally landed
uncomfortably on its last leg,
and on ours, which is stronger than all
of the shouldering shoulder of the world,
we time and again encounter little we are
unable to hold steady-

-hours pass,
then I wake out of that deep sleep
sedated by our exertion of
accumulated, mustered strength,
as a swimmer bound for a point without
the thought of returning,
just give me a kiss from your lips,
snap reflex to these lips that land on
yours,
awake or in the dreamworld, where
too I am hopeful the twin of my image
too lives,
I depart to make a living for us,
while you anticipate a return neither
of us doubt will always, always without
failure, commit-



Dontrell Lovet't
from, [Just a Body]

[Abandoned Cities] a prose

[Abandoned Cities]
The city seems abandoned; roads are clear, skies are dim, humanity finally silenced.
-a walk through the gutters, the sound of footsteps keeping cadence with the clicks of the “right-of-way” signal;
The moon is a dead thing, and as such, it knows no pain, no anguish as the living below it. He is without form, as the earth once was and light is known to him as a myth of mirage that
looms in the vast depression just preceding the step from this life. What is farthest from him, he is so close to it that he grows into it, a splinter of an imitation burn from the same womb as
what is now bygone, desired.

There is no reason other than to have his feet on the ground, to circumnavigate broken landscapes where few ever traversed. The core of him tells him to mind his natural limits, a
supernatural distortion possess him to walk about confusedly, as if it was possible to stand as tall as the things that stood great before him because for all he is, all he may be, he is no more
significant as the lesser things before him, below him.
The thing to be seen is inside of him but his eyes are not yet transparent, perception is not known fully, understood, but the full understanding, if he is not careful, what will become of
him again is something he does not wish to relive, the suffering of it once is much enough. If he is to see, he must move towards light; his vision is still infantile, his being an infant, for
being itself entangles the body in fury. And though he begin to first admire what he hopes to become, he has then taken the first step toward his own compliant drive, shakes loose his
competency, becomes an accessory to a form that is privy to no true mold other than motion in spatial space





Dontrell Lovet't
from, [Leitmotif]

[Somebody & Nobody] a poem

They all look just the same you know;
the nobodies and the somebodies- neither
can be claimed to be caused by anything
event-specific-

-a single sliver will not suffice to relate
to the other, in an exquisitely biased society
a nobody can become somebody if that
somebody has concealed their nobody origin &
had become a nobody only after they have
filled the brim of somebody
suspended impressions singles out the
asymmetry of the nobody, while the gravity
of influence becomes virulent; the nobody
is that irregular cell in the body of society, the
malignancy targeted by the precision surgeon-authority,
by color, by creed, by blood, by birth, If my nobodyness collides with the influence of somebodyness, then I may cease to exist all together,

I may finally feel the abysmal obliteration the soul feels
when it finds a conflict it cannot overcome.



Dontrell Lovet't
from, [Leitmotif]

[All Unsaid] a poem

Wounds are not supposed to be this deep without killing,

nor should words be used knowing 

when you used effective,  they are razor-edged pills spiking our morning coffee,

there is so much unsaid,

so much to be said,

to say it,

could wake us up

from this dream we've been 

squatting within 

Dontrell Lovet't 

from,  [Blotted Etches ] 

[Night-Terror Proof Touch] a poem

Sex is an art of a thousand details;

see her smile, 

watch what makes her react,

construct a night-terror proof 

touch, 

hold all friction & fiction,

now put your mouth on her

body,

leave nothing, nowhere 

untouched, unappreciated

Dontrell Lovet't 

from, [Blotted Etches]

[The Autobiographer] a poem

Story-telling is no business of mine.
It involves a coping with coddling that
I’ve never learned therein, I believe there is
no other purpose than to
present it is a fixed thing,
the thing-in-itself,
coaxed hoaxes,
orgasmic organisms,
desire in bled red,
loss in exact cost,
tarnished harvests,
fearful & tearful
No, this is not the story to tell
the dreaming world, turned inward
to victimhood.



Dontrell Lovet't
from, [The Paper Womb II] 

[Catches] a poem

The Germ cell to all chance
is the recklessness of compulsive
chance, of incomprehensible rants,
Infants grabbing for anything to place
into their hands demand chance;
it elicits from the flow
of this condition rendition &
vision


The dream broken free from it
the mind into a strange
world its innocence has never
known or adapted to
refuse caution,
option of the fearing searing
their days as strays on empty
streets, without a meal to greet



Dontrell Lovet't
from, [The Paper Womb II] 

[Faith] a poem

Leaping across an intervening distance,
what was revealed was that man
has left to bear his very susceptibility
collateral it may be,
he believes,
he has faith,

he steps out on faith even
when faith has proven time &
again an unreliable ally.
But he believes inasmuch
What is the alternative?
to lie and await his definite end?
his finite days to close in a twilight
shudder?

Only half of the story of this life
is told to the child &
the other half is ignored by
the man and woman chancing
resplendence, seeking a paper
womb to re-emerge in,
in yet another far-fetched hope
the placental sea will remove
the universality of pain
and of that metaphysical hunger
that will outlive us all,
the genesis is believed to have
been solid, without flaw;
we see the paradox everyday



Dontrell Lovet't
from, [The Paper Womb II]

[The Childless Man] a poem

The childless man ages slower
than one who has given his seed
over to more hostages of this world
his walk is slowed, his breathing
labored, his head high in spite of
the lore when his days are over,
so will be his legacy
the bullet aimed at his heart
has been true, its impact a fatal
honesty,

dawn drank from his soul
all elixir of possibility &
away poured all byproducts
of what could have been before
putrefaction flooded his once viable
limbs

what integrity remains remain
in spite of his hopeless condition
when the physician of subconscious
begins to discuss the weather,
though it had not changed since
he was a hormonal adolescent
his warmth is dependent,
death of green, unsplit trees
pulled tree of the earth it appeals to his eye only
in resemblance to life still
culpable, still complicit on
going on,

crackling screams as fire
consumes it without regard
he cannot say enough what
& why he has been led to
childlessness nor will he bring
himself to face those who thought
he should always entertain fatherhood only plead for aloneness,
until he and the child he never
bore dies within him.


Dontrell Lovet't
from, [The Paper Womb II]

[Rooms] a poem

This was always someone else’s room,
mine, is that room with no room,
a roam into a structure that
shall never give up its place of
obstacle-
& the superstructure, the one
I’ve imposed on myself,
had long preceded the former,
that vacant circle in that
unnamed Romanian forest
said to abduct the living into
the outer realm
this life is only tragic
inasmuch this life is to end;
the superstructure crumbles
with the dimming light,
the blights of stains in this room
will not be removed
this is not my room


Dontrell Lovet't
from, [The Paper Womb II]

[Beauty No.2] Andy Warhol & the Posthumous Acclaim to Fame

by Dontrell Lovet't

from, [PsychoNeuroFilmography]

Warhol never penetrated Hollywood in the way that he would have preferred, instead, he was the dominate whale in the small pool of indie film. A dapper dandy, the "Good-Time Charlie" of his era, film invited invited him nor his art, despite its unorthodox stylism of pop art. Artistic expression came alive as never before under his experimentation with film. The pioneer of Interview Magazine and author of "The Philosophy of Andy Warhol and Popism; The Warhol Sixties," his openly gay lifestyle, bohemian trysts with intellectuals, the term "15 minutes of fame," was coined; in a Warhol film, that was all he needed to solidify his diversity.

Why in all of his charismatic artism did Andy Warhol fail to make it to mainstream prominence?

It is irrefutable that most of Warhol's collections are highly valuable. A 2009 article in the Economist described Warhol as "the bellweather of the art market;" his works are considered some of the most expensive paintings ever sold. Of his numerous works of art, his filmography details the visual scrapbook of genius, notably the films "Beauty No. 2 and Poor Little Rich Girl, both of which starred the most popular underground film actress, the late Edie Sedgewick.

Both display an instrumental demise to Sedgewick, a siege of personal and derogatory questions whilst she is in bed with another man, then the subsequent crime of passion, the strangulation. In the admixture of both film, we see that Warhol was partial to not only Sedgewick but to female characters in general. The chauvinistic manner blanketed over the seemingly internal Sedgewick in unleashes in an unforgiving climax, a foreign object embedded into the skin of a sufferer imprinted with a slave's mentality. There is a seemingly hidden desire, an inalienable desire, to completely dispose of the fragilly intact character and scatter its remnants completely, severe it from its only source of metastasizing confidence, dismember the source at almost an identical desire. There is no question nor debate as there is in Tolstoy's "Anna Karenina," whether Warhol loves or hates his characters in these two films, his loathing spills over from film to reality as evident in his split from Sedgewick personally and professionally.

The pathology of the filmmaker is that the true desire itself cannot be contained; it shifts and varies itself through the dimension that separates film and life, fiction and non; the only pretension is that it allows them to breathe and bare the brunt of true life. A filmmaker discovers the world only because they must and for the reason that art depends on it.  But before there is anything at all, the desire must embed itself, the bliss of the desire when finally expelled and placed upon the reel. It is a mutual encounter, as the parasite and the host, the degradation of one and the life of another, portraiture of the artist at the limits of themselves.

Warhol's desire was of a deeper pathology than some pundits may believe; he revised and pioneered a world of his own in spite of one that would not accept him rightfully. One traces the movements of the desire a thousand times over but desire cannot live if it too has not the opportunity to breath. Warhol created that opportunity, created his world, now scattered and displayed on the walls of wealthy connoisseurs.

[In Utero] a byline

An infant begins to first dream in utero, before it reaches the 38th week of full term, followed by the trauma of birth. It can be said that that initial dream remains embedded within the fetus, as it is born and becomes an infant, infant to toddler, toddler into the schematic age.

As they grow within the realm of victimhood, that jungle that surrounded childhood, this dream is nurtured with creativity, with concrete ideas. It is in this childhood, that the dream splinters the artist, sets them apart from other children. They are then removed from themselves, observe the interpersonal behavior of adults, become precocious and the child is then inane in comparison.

The succession of images are finite in the dream, some clear, some distorted, lost in a deeper chasm than the soul can ever burrow. Few moments of a reoccurring, haunting dream can be melancholic, treacherous, where in the day one seems to be at peace with the world, an unsettling shift of axis. The dream, if anything, is the reminder to not become complacent but to always remain in motion, always live myopic, that the loiter is the deadliest form of night terror.

[Thank You For The Dream] a poem

Beautiful things are not always what they appear to be; but you can dream for abit, then afterwards,  dream they were & what could be if they walked this earth with life inside of them.

If a pulse can be felt,
then so too can be felt,
the coldness,
the nights alone,
beyond,
where so much misery
is left over it knows
no place to go

So it goes deep,
down,
burrowing to
aloneness

Dontrell Lovet't 

from, [Blotted Etches ] 

[Mon Jess] a poem

What an enterprise
that holds me center-eyed,
the thought of you thinking of me,
me of you,
and all those years your
being has been all a myth;

I have been waiting for you

Dontrell Lovet't 

from, [Blotted Etches]

[The Exterminating Dream IV] The Starving Artist

by Dontrell Lovet't

from, [To Whom All Humanity is Dreaming]



A pen, a pad and a dream; that's all the starving artist truly has, colossal haunting, evaporation into reality. Malevolent lassitude are frequent, sporadic bouts of nostalgia; they want to reconcile, they want reckonings, but art has become their predominant, has become predominant, superimposed itself as the vessel in which to channel their self-loathing, they, the vassal to shifting identity. Art is the thing of immortality, the road to immortality, time seems limited, because when one charts their inner darkness, they become not only aware of their impending demise, they can feel it.

They cannot create if they don't eat, or they don't eat if they don't create. Money is borrowed, then given away, always on the verge of utter collapse, their soul is a devouring force inasmuch it cannot devour itself- it burrows, deeper into the abyss of the body, refuses to resurfaces and enrages every sense without fail.

Their life has nothing to do with the scientific method; there is no controlled variables, more over, there is no control. Chaos is so frequent that in time, it becomes mastered, expected, commonplace, a tantamount, their equal. Lovers are transitory in their transitory homes. A few books, a desk, a pen, a pad and a dream- that is what makes it a home and if they fail to feel the comforts of homes, it is when the dream has called upon them to move, to another flat, into the arms of another lover, closer to an immuno-compromised fiction; there is not only a refusal to live anyway else, it is the incapability. Text is started, then abandoned, volumes of poetry are composed, then burned; the philosophical means to become a victim has thus far failed to rear its decapitated head; the void has become immense, vast, finite, a desert's sandstorm that continues its migration over the lush Savannah. Everything alive becomes endangered, Autumn is the only season that becomes the death of things, of all, the earth will soon become a desolate world, a fiber, a fabric of evolution brought to a standstill.

The horizon never stops receding and pain is forever unraveling in the disposition, the inherent, as the dream they dream is the same as when they were fetuses in utero; the juxtaposition to nothing, to no other man, in the sense of a scattered intellect, asymmetrically astute. The only genius is the possession of genius, an unmastered essential that drives man first to success, then infamy, then an indigent death.

There is a pen, a pad, a dream; religion is partially abandoned, if not, completely, family has fled and if they are still present, they are gone. Medicinal cures, psychiatric wards, sanatoriums have been built to house this askew visionary, yet chased to the ends of the earth, launching their words and art into the wind just before the plunge off the edges.

[Etcetra] A study on the Short film II

by Dontrell Lovet't

from, [PsychoNeuroFilmography]

We has been said has been said; now let's make the painful plight to say the truth.........



There purpose of life is that there is no definite purpose other than to be and become. The film, made in the image of man, is on that purpose of becoming, ever-becoming, yet it still stumbles and trips on the straights of its own creation. Being that film is made in the image of man, it too holds the imperfections of man, so beyond the interstitial, it is said that film was created to construct the future of humanity- upon its conclusion, the mind is set to wander, wonder and sequence what can become of the human race.

Actors are artist and as such able to grasp all cruelties that transpires and transfigure the mode of a film, whether consistent or shifting; it is with the compound that has become their life that details the rhythm of a film, moreover, a fiction so telling, so emphasizing, so captivating, that in a matter of moments, the moment teir physical language begins to speak, that fiction then becomes a reality corrosive to the life of audience, rekindles a flame that is reminiscent to pain perhaps most have felt. To be placed in the language, whether bliss, rather melancholy, rather terror or lustful desire, the momentous captivity that carries the eyes of viewers through the body of the film as blow flow through the arteries, cements a purpose, decimates the limitations of the filmmaker imposed by the filmmaker. In the short film left to its seemingly vague being, a conclusion is written in the hearts of the audience, and it is the heart that determines an "happily ever after" or a "tragic" ending, the filmmaker has no true control over this sequence. The actor is only the intermediary that drafts what cannot be forged by the novice mind, by the vacu
um void of any pride of its own tale of emptiness.

It must be said that film in itself is a viral manifestation upon the human condition, the sweetest and most detriment of vices that plagues. But as an image of man, the day film was created, the very next day, it was being perverse as man came about, the preceding day, he enslaved his fellow. If film has not sought freedom to live freely, it is because man has not, serves itself in a platter as an indigent example to ignite a subsidiary revolution, planted a kernal in an unsown soil that cannot take fruit, a wingless bird that dreams of the sky but cannot take flight.

The disharmonious endeavor is a definite symptom of decay, a malignancy along the vertebrae ignoring the anatomical structure of uprightness and refuses the plight of both feet upon the earth. Bygone filmmakers were aware of this malignancy, aware of the disarticulation that follows in a sole effort to save the body from the spread of infection. Major film is bleeding but it has not yet been bled dry of its metaphysical inaccuracies, its ignorance and ignoring of opportunity to introduce this world that those who know not of its splendor, its pains, its wanders, its mysteries. Furthermore to solve the intricate wound that art has been inflicted upon the artist, a greater understanding of the artist's desire, depravities, past and constructed worlds must be documented accurately, else it is left upon us as a confounded event.