A kiss

...

Poetry is better than film, she said.

It’s better because it is more respectful of me.

It lets me think and feel for myself.

It gives me space.

The film is an art of oppression.

It is a masochistic devise.

That’s why it is so popular.

She said inhaling a cigarette.

An image is brutal, manipulative and overwhelming.

It is a weapon of aggression.

Every cut forces itself on me.

Every scene brutalizes that which is real.

Poetry on the other hand allows

for breaths and wonders.

What about Tarkowski or Antonioni, I asked.

They too were on ego trips, don’t assume they weren’t.

They had to, I opposed.

That what I am saying. Even them. She smiled. And added:

Just look at all those who make movies.

All those types in seemingly casual attires,

with wolfish eyes, fancy gadgets,

calculating their every move.

They just ooze fear.

Their own.

And their leather jackets, please, she snorted.

Pushy, opinionated jerks.

It takes a strong character to make a film, I said.

Too bad for the film, she murmured.

And kissed me.

Softly.