Don’t Bogart That Muse

5 03 2010

he sits all Sam Spade in his
black and white office 1940’s
then she walks in like the mysteries of life
her skirt tighter than noir

she drops her handkerchief on his desk
followed by a tear, a forlorn tear squeazed
He squints at her from beneath a macho eyebrow
smoke curling and venetian blinds

the soundtrack swells as their eyes meet
instant romance complete as a B movie
crap rapture of strings and stretched out moments
only you can help me now.

an oily glass of boubon and a smouldering lucky strike
with the sultry saxophone wandering like late nights
and seedy bars and lonesome hallways
two lips touching in the pulsing neon moon

suspense is shadows and minor chords
understated narrative on a moving camera
peroxide and nicotine, the sweet eye of wonder
perils and villians and conundrums and at the end

solemn narration with pans and angles
by the time the credits roll justice is done
and Sam Spade retires to the suburbs
and strokes the breast of his leading lady.




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