Picture

 

Picture

 

Picture this: a sky full of thunder,

no, no, cut that, Blondie.

A villain in a cowboy’s hat –

and the face just falls,

into frame

before they’ll put a bullet

in your brain.

Then again, long shot,

diegetic sound,

a man whistles through teeth,

softly, softly, offscreen,

polishing steel until it gleams,

then cocks, rifle shot,

and someone far distant,

far below,

sees it all, just for an instant:

just a dot, 

just a blot

in amongst the towering rocks

of Monument Valley.

Picture this: my telephone number,

no, no, cut that, just you, 

captured in Cinemascope,

high heels, coffee, cellphone,

strutting cross canvas landscapes -

with manic dream pixie eyes

picked out in pixels,

the centre of your own romcom -

credits rolling long

before you see 

the wheeling of starry skies.