Jean Rollin
Visconti, Godard, Truffaut, Clouzot,
Millions of women wanted golden locks of our goddess Bardot.
Such illustrious names grace the covers of big magazines next to
Tarot packs and sandalwood in newly sprung occult bookshops.
Sanctus, sanctus,
I bow to the new Old Masters and their mauve magics,
yet I don’t want to be Sophia Loren or Michelle Mercier.
I don’t have the spirit of the indomitable Angelique, I know
nothing of looking Italian chic.
Imagine a tender supple breast cinematographically caressed -
the moment a captive pale maiden steps out of a purple coffin
to gaze at the sun by the sea is The White Goddess condensed.
Her transparent stola of orange gauze is almost a priestly robe.
Black drapes and crimson silks, sweet sapphic delights, old cemeteries...
Imagine a world where all reason mercifully sleeps and the ritual reigns.
Beautiful images sing a curious lullaby directly to my tired soul.
Sex and death, Brigitte Lahaie wield a scythe like Saturn
I’d rather be a vampire who is a true child of Neptune
Always rising out of or sinking into the sea by the beach near Dieppe
Each celluloid immoral tale has carved this lonely shoreline
And white chalk cliffs deep into my cells ever hungry for beauty
I’d rather be a Rollin vampire on the phantom silver screen
Where the iron rose of imagination always blooms
And foreboding nakedness always fascinates
Paint me a vampire in a surrealist black sabbath or a Dadaist dream
Kidnap me into the timelessness of the fantastique at knifepoint
I care little for Vietnam and dizzy rioting pups who could read
Neither Lolita nor Proust
I’d rather be a Rollin vampire on the phantom silver screen
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