Credits

A zealous man on the bus once told me:
'The cinema, it's like a womb
Soft red walls and dark (at first) – y'see?'
And with you, curled up in this expanding room
I am swathed in a membrane's glow
- that's true. Stretched out and through which I see the glorious whole
a pulsating well-lit world that is more sane, more intimately known
than what shrieks around this gummy old skull.

Still, I went with my mother (inside and out)
duty bound to this place where she ate, wept and smoked,
where the men were all handsome and goodness had clout
where I wriggled and chattered though scolded and poked;
I'd yet to learn the virtue of focus
and not to ask more than a woman can give.
So, womb idea's fiction as when you are its locus
Ma's a nice place to visit but no place to live.

So ignore dark figures on buses,
let incidental music play,
I’ll worship ten feet of your rushes.
Your rushes my Torah today
tonight, always. Writer, film-maker, enthusiast.
No that is not my voice no they have not got my face right.
Tell me o dark-eyed iconoclast, more than knotting ribbon, gumming stars,

the correct typeface for the dead of night.