Your first Hitchcock. Or Hitch. Or Hitchcock.
A creepy thought, a wriggling insect.
You cannot move your virgin eyelids.
And all these people... Faces sodden
With tears unwept and words unwhispered,
They come from dreams, they come from nightmares,
Although, in fact, they come from pavements
And city streets, and parks, and alleys,
And even chimneys done with presents.
The dizzy spell, the rope, the frenzy,
They come as if through mist or madness.
They're beautiful, but they are deadly
Unlike your face, unlike your breakfast.
The glass is shattered and asunder
The shards torment your past and present.
A woman screaming, nun approaching.
No breathing space, you run downstairs
Where there is no one, talking silence
To loves, to hates, to rains, to sunshines,
And through the blood that tastes like water,
Another go, redeeming rerack.
A second chance. First love. First Hitchcock.
