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Antonioni’s blow-up


A 221lready dated when I'm in college,

David Hemming's bell-bottomed swagger

And talk of Nepal, the thick eyeliner

Raccooning his models: misogyny                                                                    


Or a knight errant's heart makes him walk out

Of one shoot, leave the models standing there

With eyes shut, arms artfully akimbo, bare

Bony torsos thrust sideways as they wait;                                 


Already dated, the Mary Quant bangs                                                                

And white lips of two Twiggy wannabes

Who haunt his trail.  The three fuck like bunnies

In one scene.  It's all in fun.  He hangs,


In his swank Knightsbridge flat, not fashion spreads

Or even portraits of the most gorgeous--

What happened to . . . was her name Veruschka?--

But poster-sized shots of London's rag-clad


Scrounging for fish and chips in curbside bins,

Sleeping in tube stations, sleeping in parks.

(Film 301.  Late '70s.  No talk

Of homelessness except after hurricanes,


Those fires and earthquakes covered on TV.)

Sleeping in parks.  In a green leafy copse--

Even then my brain translated corpse--

A body lies waiting to be found.  What's real


But the shots developed in his darkroom,

Characters and props taking hazy shape

As fixative scents the air, as blow-ups

Reveal a splayed leg flattening grass, an arm


Holding a gun, a woman's frightened face--there--

Then dissolve to grains?  Or is the body,

And the gun, a trick of light?  I'm twenty,

Taking notes as if the world might disappear.  


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