Movie Victim (a flashback)
I know you love Helena Bonham
Carter (and Scarlett O’Hara – I mean
and Vivien Leigh); those troublesome
eyes and the pert chin, the impeccable pedigree,
pneumatic knockers and a penchant
for surprising fashion – what could be
more alluring?
Intelligence and passion.
So, I’m watching you sitting in the bar,
cigarette waving, my eyes
flashing in the intermittent
butane light while you talk. It’s the way you cup
your fingers around it and suck –
you really should have been
in the movies – I mean, in the forties –
Stop arguing. I know you say
your friendship can’t be bought
(oh, the red earth of Tara!) –
but anyway, I can’t
pay the price. I wish your button wasn't
open over your white
T-shirt and that triangle of throat.
I wish you didn’t
make me think of Gregory Peck
with all that inherent decency.
It’s the tweed jacket – such a red
herring. I know what you’re like and I wish I didn’t
always know what you were going
to say next.
Don’t bend your head down like that.
Stop lighting your cigarette.
