The man said, "He is a brilliant

special effect, given the budget

and the film technology of the thirties,

but the story is hopelessly contrived,

even allowing for the strong mythic

element." The woman said, "No,

he looks too much like a stuffed toy,

a huge piece of period kitsch,

ludicrous when he tries for tragedy."

The man shook his hair and made smoke,

insisting, "Verisimilitude is irrelevant,

as in any Gothic melodrama."

I marvelled at these mammoth words

unfolding from such little brains. I ate

the man first, then the woman, both stringy,

but then what’s not these days.

William Trowbridge

Enter Dark Stranger. 1989. University of Arkansas Press.