Open 11am to 8pm
Royal Festival Hall (Level 5), Southbank Centre, LondonOpen Tuesday - Sunday from 11am to 8pm
Recorded at 'Citizens of the Archive' at the National Poetry Library, July 2017
Image by Amaal Said
Illicit one-time love, your face
was narrow as mine, Italian as
De Niro. You were fortunate
to escape marriage to me, yet
sometimes, I confess, you visit
my salacious dreams. I wear black
lycra above the knee, and meet
your eyes as if you were an eager
punter on Great Windmill Street.
It’s years since I gave back your rose cut
diamond ring – which doesn’t show much wit –
so why would I think of calling you this evening
half way across the world? I have
your number, but see no point using it.
It’s far too late for an alternative life.
You would have hated being strapped for cash.
And who can tell how long we would have
burned together, before turning to ash?
What does it mean if every night for a week
you dream that you are Batgirl
flying around the roofs of malls with Batman and Robin
and you can’t decide which one you like best
It would have to be Batman, really
because he gets more respect
But then again, just how old is he under that mask
if the series is into reruns?
You flit between the two of them
admiring the legs,
wondering if Batman wears a corset
and asking yourself if you should be wary of a man who still lives in a cave
And what about sex?
When it was over, would he just leave you hanging