Should Michal Jackson’s “Thriller” Be Part of the Literary Cannon?

I’m really putting myself out-there with this one. . .

I mean, who else do you know with the temerity to mutter these words together: “Francis Thompson” and “Michal Jackson”? But, since this is a blog about speculative fiction, here I go. . .

Recently, poetry has filled a need which has long been missing in my life. No, not a lack of passion (’got plenty o’ that) or inspiration (that’s what Sponge Bob is for) nor was it due to a lack of love (I married to a torch singer). Embarrassingly, I admit to not being a strong reader.

Oh!The irony!
A writer who doesn’t read.

Actually, I do read –almost anything, so long as it’s not fiction! Why? Recently, David Wolach and Elizabeth Williamson, both writers and Professors at Evergreen College here in Washington State, invited me to read in a literary series titled, “Change and the Avante-guard”. After the event and over a few beers, our conversation naturally turned to the writing process. And in my post-libations state, I confessed to being a serial mimic. Chagrinned, I further explained that –if I spend a Saturday afternoon watching Raider’s of the Lost Ark”, I’ll spend the rest of the weekend with that damned theme music playing in my head, thinking I’m some sort of a total bad-ass. In traffic, a small part of my mammal brain is seriously interested in steering with my feet while climbing onto a moving semi. I ask for milk with attitude. I want to punch out the lights of every Nazi I see.

So you can imagine what happens when I read an interesting novel, say Ralph Ellison’s, The Invisible Man.

"I am an invisible man. No, I am not a spook like those who haunted Edgar Allan Poe; nor am I one of your Hollywood-movie ectoplasms. I am a man of substance, of flesh and bone, fiber and liquids - and I might even be said to possess a mind. I am invisible; understand, simply because people refuse to see me." (from The Invisible Man, prologue)

See what I mean? At this very moment I feel like I’m diss . .a . .. pe r . . .

Ok, I’m back.

Just as it should, great fiction infects me! And if I am working on a project --which always seems to be the case --then my prose becomes hopelessly welded to snippets of text that I’ve ingested --which then tend to convolute and complicate my writing process.

David Wolach admitted to the same disease, and recommended that I read more poetry. His theory was that poetry infects a different part of a writer’s brain, one not so impressionable. (I confess: I thought he was talking about cute, short and sassy little poems –but I later found out that he was mostly is interested in 300-800 page novel-length poems. Not exactly what I had in mind.)

Considering our conversation, I fell upon Thompson’s poem, The Hound of Hell.

For those of you who do not know Francis Thompson (1859-1907), he was a poet recognized post humorously, which makes poetic sense --that is, if you’ve ever read the poem that made him famous. I’ve skipped to the relevant passages below –the gothic, urgent prose of a man who seeketh repentance. But you can see the full poem at http://www.cs.drexel.edu/~gbrandal/Illum_html/hound.html.

[ ]With glooming robes purpureal, cypress-crowned ;
His name I know, and what his trumpet saith.
Whether man's heart or life it be which yields
Thee harvest, must Thy harvest-fields
Be dunged with rotten death ?
Now of that long pursuit
Comes on at hand the bruit ;
That Voice is round me like a bursting sea :
"And is thy earth so marred,
Shattered in shard on shard ?
Lo, all things fly thee, for thou fliest me !
"Strange, piteous, futile thing !
Wherefore should any set thee love apart ?
Seeing none but I makes much of naught" (He said),
"And human love needs human meriting :
How hast thou merited --
Of all man's clotted clay the dingiest clot ?
Alack, thou knowest not
How little worthy of any love thou art !
Whom wilt thou find to love ignoble thee,
Save Me, save only Me ?
All which I took from thee I did but take,
Not for thy harms,
But just that thou might'st seek it in My arms.
All which thy child's mistake
Fancies as lost, I have stored for thee at home :
Rise, clasp My hand, and come !"
Halts by me that footfall :
Is my gloom, after all,
Shade of His hand, outstretched caressingly ?
"Ah, fondest, blindest, weakest,
I am He Whom thou seekest !
Thou dravest love from thee, who dravest me."


Now for some strange reason, I started thinking of the lyrics to Michal Jackson’s “Thriller”. Perhaps it was the impending doom that seems to haunt both pieces, or maybe the choppy, broken verses . . . nevertheless, I can’t believe I’m about to do this (sorry David and Elizabeth) but, here goes nothin’:

It’s Close To Midnight And Something Evil’s Lurking In The Dark
Under The Moonlight You See A Sight That Almost Stops Your Heart
You Try To Scream But Terror Takes The Sound Before You Make It
You Start To Freeze As Horror Looks You Right Between The Eyes,
You’re Paralyzed

‘Cause This Is Thriller, Thriller Night
And No One’s Gonna Save You From The Beast About Strike
You Know It’s Thriller, Thriller Night
You’re Fighting For Your Life Inside A Killer, Thriller Tonight

You Hear The Door Slam And Realize There’s Nowhere Left To Run
You Feel The Cold Hand And Wonder If You’ll Ever See The Sun
You Close Your Eyes And Hope That This Is Just Imagination
But All The While You Hear The Creature Creepin’ Up Behind
You’re Out Of Time

‘Cause This Is Thriller, Thriller Night
There Ain’t No Second Chance Against The Thing With
Forty Eyes
You Know It’s Thriller, Thriller Night
You’re Fighting For Your Life Inside Of Killer, Thriller Tonight

Night Creatures Call
And The Dead Start To Walk In Their Masquerade
There’s No Escapin’ The Jaws Of The Alien This Time
(They’re Open Wide)
This Is The End Of Your Life

They’re Out To Get You, There’s Demons Closing In On Every Side
They Will Possess You Unless You Change The Number On Your Dial
Now Is The Time For You And I To Cuddle Close Together
All Thru The Night I’ll Save You From The Terror On The Screen,
I’ll Make You See

That This Is Thriller, Thriller Night
‘Cause I Can Thrill You More Than Any Ghost Would Dare To Try
Girl, This Is Thriller, Thriller Night
So Let Me Hold You Tight And Share A Killer, Diller, Chiller
Thriller Here Tonight

RAP

Darkness Falls Across The Land
The Midnite Hour Is Close At Hand
Creatures Crawl In Search Of Blood
To Terrorize Y’awl’s Neighbourhood
And Whosoever Shall Be Found
Without The Soul For Getting Down
Must Stand And Face The Hounds Of Hell
And Rot Inside A Corpse’s Shell
The Foulest Stench Is In The Air
The Funk Of Forty Thousand Years
And Grizzy Ghouls From Every Tomb
Are Closing In To Seal Your Doom
And Though You Fight To Stay Alive
Your Body Starts To Shiver
For No Mere Mortal Can Resist
The Evil Of The Thriller

Can you feel the same transgression? The all-powerful presence? The same mighty force closing in on Thomson that is closing in on “Those without the soul for getting down”? Literature or not, Thriller is every bit as surreal as Thompson. I see Thriller’s gothic, march to doom just as chilling as Thomson’s march to heaven. Agreed, any trustworthy literary critic might accuse me of having had one-too many energy drinks, but whether it be an accent or decent, with or without repentance, transcendentalism is always a scary and lonesome walk through the graveyard. In the afterlife, we like to image that there are other sinners and saints there, waiting –I guess so that we’ll have someone to chat with –but really, the walk to our respective heavens and hells are deeply personal. And any artistic piece which affords us a reflective glimpse into the abstract, disassociations that have long divided “good” and “evil”, “body” and “mind” --by nature, is speculative fiction –right?

I’m sure there are less work-a-day examples of this transgressive, descent-with a groove; if you know of some, please share. I’d love to hear form you.

Until then –I’m gonna go pistol-whip some bad guys. Who’s with me?!