Rudolph Ming

I was never more inspired to write poetry than when I'd just viewed (in fact, as I was viewing) a wonderful documentary film on a 12-year old Latvian boy, Rudolph Ming, who's precociously obsessed with making films of horror and death & whose own demonaical representations get shown at a final church-opening ceremony. I can't possibly have hoped to capture in verse anything like the essence of this troubled boy gifted with his own personal anguish and nor could I, stupidly hoping for some originality, have written anything like a complete poem without using materials & dialogue from the film. Rudolph somehow saw to that.
__________________________

Why a hole in the sand, Rudolph, covered over, nettles-full,
  a patina to lure the foot
or make the hole look not too unseemly? But dig one
  to hide the black in

& imagine them falling, as the apple-eater rocks in his tree can,
  image of a pensive boy, or
at even his piano as he slaps a sheet over & the notes whir
                                                                    ( angry as he is!)

Without too much reel it's even made, sharp to his fingers'-ends,
  christ-skewered, & no Sandra or sonata in it—
just the child's and "so much horrible emotion" as the priest
                                                                                     laments
  and a "room so bloody", too

But where's the fun? or love? "I don't like love" in a paper-roll film
   for a church-opening, most of all,
& some sectioned tap "to draw the film in", an oil text, & the script read
   in a woodlot silently

to look actually for a logo in "Book of Judges", Angel, barren wife
  et al. or in his hammock among gooseberry
inspired to add in vineyards where lions tear the kid, or flail like
                                                                                     bee swarms
  No birth here but a Riddle

No need for musick, just row of sinful dirty linen with 'Shimshon &
  Delilah a possible title, etched in,
& pyrotechnics, "real fireworks" instead of bonfires on the beach,
  He hammock-lies, dreaming

wondering what the film is, when he's not interrupted with potato-
  pealing, jar-filling Oh! young brechtian,
impatient of crayon-drafts & soundless table & who tears the paper
  off the demon's back

or digs a hole to put the nettle-screen in (this time), in the compost
  young fire-breather!
"Wasting such a beauty" as all this, does God need film-making
                                                                             as badly as this?
  Film's no scripture but script

read to the people: "no, Shimshon and nightmares only", a real case,
  a real death
oh! brechtian boy fingering the keys, always glossy, cool—
  Film's like viral spread into the lungs

with "blood at the mouth" Angels never look like one to Rudolph,
  & to "participate in threats"
is the way to film the bible for the Lord uses his mind as a weapon
  (No relief, please!)