03-17-2013, 04:43 AM
The first baby Rosemary had,
when she was little more than ten;
the viewers and the press
who later mistook the child
for one of the victims of that horrid Manson Family affair
had obviously had no practice with math.
Some kind of music always starts right away.
Always the same;
and it never lets off,
even in the silent moments
when someone's merely moving about,
touching things.
Even when Kim Cattrall's mobile rings;
(but that's another story.)
Rosemary may have smoked as a teenager,
though these rarely have flashbacks.
And the women are always nice until they're not.
In fact lots of things are going on in this hotel;
things escalating quickly, naturally.
And she never seems to be saying anything useful.
(Her actions are obviously another story too.)
The ones that are talking, visually know less than one thinks;
no diner, no café is without these talkative people with some agenda.
Only in public do they say
these are strange times.
The cock still crows, but we're not in Paris any more;
a thriller is a thriller is a thriller:
the overcast days might as well be as dark as night.
The music is gone faster;
now someone's chasing someone
along a narrow road with bare hills on each side;
and something obscure is on the run.
Telling you this isn't America, either;
not even the New England shore.
You only have bicycles and cars,
leaving the motorbikes behind.
That forgotten child was on to something;
all these years later,
seducing the protagonist in front of the fire on a rainy night.
Having gotten drunk, and broke the law with the director.
She's a mature woman now; forty-ish, dishy.
Your most faithful ally is the enemy of the people.
Where does that leave you, in a strange hotel and a foreign land;
she's an unknown factor.
A face in the crowd.
Because the rain's dying down and
the sky's not clearing up;
everyone you meet is away from home.
While Rosemary's baby is back in New York.
The first one,
the one that put all this in motion.
And even she has to argue over the door intercom
before she's let in.
when she was little more than ten;
the viewers and the press
who later mistook the child
for one of the victims of that horrid Manson Family affair
had obviously had no practice with math.
Some kind of music always starts right away.
Always the same;
and it never lets off,
even in the silent moments
when someone's merely moving about,
touching things.
Even when Kim Cattrall's mobile rings;
(but that's another story.)
Rosemary may have smoked as a teenager,
though these rarely have flashbacks.
And the women are always nice until they're not.
In fact lots of things are going on in this hotel;
things escalating quickly, naturally.
And she never seems to be saying anything useful.
(Her actions are obviously another story too.)
The ones that are talking, visually know less than one thinks;
no diner, no café is without these talkative people with some agenda.
Only in public do they say
these are strange times.
The cock still crows, but we're not in Paris any more;
a thriller is a thriller is a thriller:
the overcast days might as well be as dark as night.
The music is gone faster;
now someone's chasing someone
along a narrow road with bare hills on each side;
and something obscure is on the run.
Telling you this isn't America, either;
not even the New England shore.
You only have bicycles and cars,
leaving the motorbikes behind.
That forgotten child was on to something;
all these years later,
seducing the protagonist in front of the fire on a rainy night.
Having gotten drunk, and broke the law with the director.
She's a mature woman now; forty-ish, dishy.
Your most faithful ally is the enemy of the people.
Where does that leave you, in a strange hotel and a foreign land;
she's an unknown factor.
A face in the crowd.
Because the rain's dying down and
the sky's not clearing up;
everyone you meet is away from home.
While Rosemary's baby is back in New York.
The first one,
the one that put all this in motion.
And even she has to argue over the door intercom
before she's let in.
