She had Elizabeth Taylor's eyes;
not literally, of course,
although it might as well have been,
so convincing was the theft –
plucked as they were from Cat on a hot tin roof.

She was aware of the fact:
showed them off to best effect;
wore no glasses in public though she needed them;
looked others straight in the ordinary eye when she spoke.

"There go Elizabeth Taylor's eyes"
people would say,
for the rest of her face was unremarkable.

"I am two years older"
she would say.
"Elizabeth Taylor has my eyes
if you want the absolute truth."

Few people did,
or do.

OFF-SCREEN ROMANCE

On-screen it always looked so different;
they opened their mouths for one thing,
at least in the new films,
and we never did.

Our lips were as tight as the Hay’s Code
and we pressed them together so hard
in that hot and promise-filled garage
that they ached until tea-time.

I often wondered if their lips
were as wet as yours. They looked it,
even in the black and whites;
all moist and full and lingering.

They didn’t wipe their mouths
in the afterglow though;
not the way we did
with a backhand swipe.

They didn’t wipe their mouths at all,
in fact; just lit cigarettes,
said “I love you” or “Goodbye”
and we didn’t do any of that.

John Lindley

ROCKS OFF AT THE ROXY

Get your rocks off at the Roxy,
You can see that organ rise,
Watch her lollipop fellatio
As your mind explores her thighs;
Peer furtively down her silk blouse
While her eyes are on the screen;
It’s rocks off at the Roxy
When your coming on seventeen.

Snake an arm around her shoulders
In the motion of an outward stretch,
Hear the rumbling of your heartbeat
Like a solo by Buddy Rich,
Crush her close, let her loose if she shrugs you,
If she doesn’t, then you still won’t know
If she’s half as aware of your movements
As the actors in the picture show.

There’s a girl in the aisles at the Roxy
Who walks with a sway down the slopes
And her skirt is as tight as Jack Benny
And her heels are as high as your hopes.
She’s a nine inch torch in her right hand
But a choc ice in her heart
So if it’s rocks off at the Roxy
You can cross her off for a start.

All around are the sounds of wet kisses,
Through the gloom there are heads joined as one,
There’s a sound of material rustling,
There’s a feeling that your chance has gone.
Everyone’s making out at the Roxy,
Everyone gets it off but yourselves,
So it’s lies to your mates in the morning
When your seventeen, feeling twelve.

John Lindley