Here you will find the Poem The James Bond Movie of poet May Swenson
The popcorn is greasy, and I forgot to bring a Kleenex. A pill that?s a bomb inside the stomach of a man inside The Embassy blows up. Eructations of flame, luxurious cauliflowers giganticize into motion. The entire 29-ft. screen is orange, is crackling flesh and brick bursting, blackening, smithereened. I unwrap a Dentyne and, while jouncing my teeth in rubber tongue-smarting clove, try with the 2-inch-wide paper to blot butter off my fingers. A bubble-bath, room-sized, in which 14 girls, delectable and sexless, twist-topped Creamy Freezes (their blond, red, brown, pinkish, lavendar or silver wiglets all screwed that high, and varnished), scrub-tickle a lone male, whose chest has just the right amount and distribu- tion of curly hair. He?s nervously pretending to defend his modesty. His crotch, below the waterline, is also below the frame?but unsubmerged all 28 slick foamy boobs. Their makeup fails to let the girls look naked. Caterpil- lar lashes, black and thick, lush lips glossed pink like the gum I pop and chew, contact lenses on the eyes that are mostly blue, they?re nose-perfect replicas of each other. I?ve got most of the grease off and onto this little square of paper. I?m folding it now, making creases with my nails.
