There is an art to enjoy bad movies,
A way to abstract perfect stills
From tawdry plots and dead dialogue:
Raindrops beating on the heroine’s face –
You can bracket this, cut away the edges
Of the hackneyed scene; you can travel far
On the montage of a lonesome highway
To the shot of the runaway lovers.
The art is to detach from plot and words,
The absurd clichés muted by the will,
Life itself removed, a clumsy interlude.
It’s all yours now, stirred in the alembic
Of half-dreams, a movie within a movie,
This fine art of late night solitude.