Best Film


As each year passes, the film stock will grow
From the imprinting on a silver plate
Of adventures and follies fit to blow
A boat off the edge of the worldly view
Of a woman staring you from the gate
As if she wants to instil something new
Into the sameness of the female skin
The temporary cloth of common fate
The search for innocence lost in sin
Repeats in each and every bloody frame
As if one tale can never satiate
The ambition to leave behind a name
After the ambient noise has drowned its hum
When the carousel has ceased to rotate
For the archivists to make up a sum
Airy lives in the fairy land of dreams
Bid to save the world and they agitate
While the poppy bole conjures many streams
Of swimming fish willing to take the bait
The fisherman drinks with a reprobate
The rebels cry out loud that they can't wait
But the young find it hard to close the gap
Between the churning and the yearning state
So they take the shortest cut straight to rap
Where the rage is made only on the stage
A dozen words enough to inculcate
Ten thousand nodders to give up their wage
It's very hard to call it a debate
Where the destructive urges dominate
The problems will only exacerbate

The best film award for reasons we all know
Given to someone who has tried and more
Was made to honour something done for show
Remembering that there was a big crew
And it was their hands and feet that got sore
Key grips following all the way through
A long time before a film can begin
Knock, knock, he enters through an open door
And counts costs slurping a sip of gin
Some grow old but no passing years will tame
The fraught singing heart of a troubadour
Who never sang out just to sound the same
He asked why every tune must have a drum
That drowned out the true tone of the folklore
To the mad apprentice who drove him to rum
Thinking, nothing is really what it seems
The fruit gets peeled down to its very core
Bringing a smile that shivers as it beams
Decadent dentils stained by chocolate
The smart business bets on humping and gore
The hero must come before it's too late
If people can find places on a map
Where they record dreams of the night before
Like Vegas neons flowing from a tap
They will even fly in a creaky cage
To line up and wait on the golden shore
To start their memoirs on a bright new page
When the film at last begins, what's in store?
Splat! Someone spills beans on the spotless floor
A clue, or yet another dreary chore?

Rome, 3 3 2007