Right now you’re lounging
in one of the pleasant moments
from the Symphonie Fantastique –
the whirling glamour of the ball
or the dreamy pleasures
of the scene by the brook.
What’s your poison? What
takes your fancy? What’s the worst
that could happen? It’s fine; really.
What’s a little shortcut to regret
amongst friends? Never mind
that brash flash of light –
just a reflection off the mirrorball.
Press photographer? What
press photographer? Did you know
that paparazzi comes from
the name of a character
in a Fellini film? Worth seeing.
We’ve called you a taxi,
by the way. Thanks for coming.
Might be a while till the next time.
The Symphonie Fantastique?
Here, borrow the CD. Hang on to it
as long as you like. The march
to the scaffold – that’s the best bit,
that’s what will be starting
any time now: pushy reporters,
pundits, the turning of heads
and swivelling of eyes, a nation
of curtain-twitchers giving it
their passive-aggressive best.
The witches’ Sabbath –
the moody final movement
with its clanging bells – that’s
the psychology of the whole thing,
how it gets to you, gnaws
at you, won’t leave you alone.