Amy

Amy

Amy, I’m waiting for the film of your life I’ll watch on a DVD as I can’t afford the movies.
I’ll wait till I can get it for a$4 a week rental.
I’ll watch the extras: the interviews with the actors (not Gaga),
the director, the accent coach, make-up artist, singing coach, tattoo expert.
I’ll hear the director say how she tried to capture you, last of the romantic artists, latest in a line of addicted seers; your father will speak as he always does,
I’ll see that shot of you in the your last month collapsed on a bench outside a Camden pub at 9.30 in the morning, pregnant with a beer gut, lost to it all

Amy, I’m waiting for the movie not to be made, for the dollars not to be laid down,
for the rights not to be sold, the actor not to be tempted by the role, for the cap
to be put on the lens, for the mourning for you and your illness to begin
with a charity concert of Back to Black played by kids on a bottle orchestra of 100,000 Smirnoffs.





Harvey Molloy

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I wrote this quickly and without much thought or reflection aside from tweaking the last line.