Morning, the wallpaper is from that scene
In Barton Fink‘s Hollywood flat. Next
To me is a woman, Mimi, from Polanski’s film
Bitter Fruit. She is his wife. My cock is now
Jean-Hugues Anglade’s in Beatrice Dalle, the opening
From Betty Blue. Reef, her body
Is the shore, salt-stained, at low tide, the bodies
Of the actors outshone by the scenic
Background in The Tempest. Only Angels Have Wings opens
With Grant in baggy shirt, rolled up trousers, bandana, next
To Jean Arthur. Grant in his huge cane-cutter’s hat, now
That is discomfort. I am post-coital. In the film
Smoke, the camera draws down on Keitel, the film
Doesn’t cut nor pan as Keitel’s body
Holds us to the story of the blind woman. Now
She is telling me a story about a blind woman, a scene
Where a dog leads her into a busy street, next
Cars rush past her, one stops, its door opens.
I ask her if there isn’t a film that opens
Just that way. I am James Spader in the film
Sex, Lies and Videotape. Inquisitor. Next,
Cut to breakfast, I am Stansfield’s body
At the end of Leon. Or am I Hackman in the film
The Firm, overtaking Tripplehorn? Now
As I lift the coffee to my lips, And Now
For Something Completely Different opens
At the table. The bank robber in a lingerie shop scene
Lifts her spirits. The morning light is a gold film
On the day’s spot, like the stage from Headless Body
In Topless Bar. I don’t now what will come next.
Suddenly a scene from a reverse The Next
Best Thing. She wanted me as a lover, but now
She wants a woman. I guess a body is not just a body
Coming through the rye. It is 3 p.m.. J.D. Salinger opened
Uncle Wiggily in Connecticut at 3 p.m. The film
My Foolish Heart based on it is a mess of scenes,
Scenes that so incensed Salinger, he next
Had his will indicate no films be made now or ever.
The plot of Split Wide Open. Our bodies. This poem.