I’ve got Bette Davis eyes,
seething in a jar of formaldehyde,
simmering on the dressing table,
glaring as I shuck sleep,
slink into a kimono from Garbo.
I light up a fag and stare
into a slither of Minelli’s mirror,
it’s all I could afford at the time.
Tapping ash onto Marlene Dietrich’s dentures,
as the tainted teeth mouth bitter comments.

My drawers reek of death,
a pair of Judy Garland’s knickers,
snug as ruby slippers.
I pull on James Dean’s keks,
slightly soiled and smelling
of testosterone and fear.
A baggy jumper belonging to Streisand
slung over Brandon’s vest top,
slick with sweat and desire.

I dress in a bricolage of iconography,
assimilating greatness.
Sitting, I paste grease paint,
Springfield’s eye shadow,
Nina Simone’s lips,
rouged like Bassey,
in bold, garish colours.
I pout perfectly,
kissing my reflection goodbye.

Tipping Sinatra’s fedora from my elbow
to my head, smoothly choreographed.
I grab Astaire’s cane,
whistling a jaunty show-tune.
I close the door on myself,
leaving as someone who’ll top the bill.

***

Morgan Melhuish is an aspiring poet and full time teacher who recently moved to the land of Brassed Off and God’s Own Country – quite a cinematic contrast! His work can be found in Outcast Magazine and The Impossible Archetype and he has a short story in Brenda and Effie: A Treasury.