Hitchcockian
To my dearest film director of all days
Facing your fears on the screen
That’s what I mean
When I mention his name
Raised in England by the grocer’s hands
He wouldn’t stand a chance
If he’d stayed in one place
That’s why he had to urgently move his bones
To the film industry
Whatever that meant
He desperately wanted to be
Someone
Not just
An underappreciated movie prop
To somebody else
With so many ideas –
Transcript of his real life
Held together by his devoted wife
Balancing the state of affairs
Even if they went awry
Because of the iconic blondes
Searched by him every time
To fit the purpose of his life
Unequalled by anyone else
Unparalleled with any style
Known before
To a widest audience
Survived on the negatives
Scrupulously restored and released to the world
Whoever wants to take a dip
In any murder case
Sprinkled with a thrill at best
Comparable to a meal served
To his well-groomed actresses and actors
In order to become unforgettable
Either on a big or small screen
In our homes
The cinema itself
Would be a shadow without your work, sir
Master of mystery, militant of misogyny
*
March – September 2022
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Thank you for reading!
About the Creator
Moon Desert
UK-based
BA in Cultural Studies
Crime Fiction: Love
Poetry: Friend
Psychology: Salvation
I write only because there is a voice within me that will not be still.
Sylvia Plath
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Scones
Alright, let's not fuck about - here is what you need: Ingredients: 350g self raising flour 90g butter pinch of salt tsp of baking powder 3 tbsp caster sugar (or just normal white sugar would probably be fine) 175ml milk a squeeze of lemon a drop of vanilla an egg fresh strawberries, if they're in season Extra flour Even more flour Dried fruit (I consider this completely optional and usually leave it out)
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