PECKINPAH RIDES AGAIN

When the shagpiled villain stages a pas de deux

                                                                                          from

                                                                                                 the

                                                                                          roof

                                                                                                 tops

            And Holden                 pirouettes low

                               in a whirl of                     on Mexican heels

                               hardware                                        face creased

                                  dust                                 twitching sweat

                         clenched teeth                                       pistol

                                       (reliably lovable, even so),

            And that leathery vulture is still spin

                                                                      ning

                                                                             through

     whorls

of

                                                                             gun

           smoke

                                                                        as if a             from 2001

                                                                                  dropout

            Dying beautifully,

     so technicolourfully,

  and gracefully

      (there’s an action replay a few scenes later)

  as a sycamore

                                                                                                 seed

                                                                                 aero

                                                            planes

                                                                 

                                                                             from  a

  child’s

         palm.

When the jugular vein is worth a shot of ketchup

And sun-diced eyes a random p.e.p.p.e.r.i.n.g.

And the whores are the beautiful people:

                                                                            transgressed Mexicans

Or were they defoliated Vietnamese we thought we’d archived?

When splintered fetlocks cry for honest bullets;

Where grizzled anti-heroes are dirt cheap and

Guffaw with weird abandon across barleycorn stubble,

And the real smart heroes superstruct publicity;

Where the frontier shrinks from the idyll

And Civilisation from the East splut

   ters in on a model T Ford

(complete with machine gun);

And a vasilened telephoto lens glamorises a monstrous rump

Is that Borgnine or his horse?  you wonder.

pow . . . pow

pow . . . pow:

                  a montage of trembling, paranoid outcasts Who

wouldn’t have it any other way than

electrifying disembowelment

(in close-up, naturally)

before their perforated, suppurating cronies,

fingering their triggers in the ulti mate rite,

are carted down

 trail-to-the-cut-ting-room;

THEN

                        and only then

                                              I guess yer gotta right to know

            Big Sam is reel

 ing back into town.

Michael Small

1978