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Hitchcock Ice-Queen


In nineteen-fifty-nine I was twenty-
five and perfect
in my platinum shell of lacquer,
crisp tailoring, impossibly narrow
stilettos, jetstream pointy bra.
I was a lethal neutron-bomb
of female destructiveness –
seductive but sharp –
luring men to their downfall
on my undulating, rocketship hips,
instantly recognisable.


Now I’m just some old cow
with a Zimmer frame
down the supermarket
for a tin of rice-cream
easily digestible. Oh, the tailoring!
Oh, the hairdo torture!
Oh, the hours in make-up!
They sewed me
into my cocktail dress
(shot-silk, ice-blue) reeking
of Shalimar and bleach.


Oh, the posing!
Oh, the three hundred exposures
to get the one pin-up money-shot
of me impersonating a highly
desirable, unattainable sex-doll.
Who was she,
that starlet pin-up
that used to be me?
Fucked if I know.
She looks like my grand-daughter.
I’ve been constipated for fifteen years.




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