When Alfred Hitchcock traveled underground
And settled his famous bulk in Charon’s boat
(‘A star vehicle at last!’), and heard the sound
Of oars, and felt the deathship float,
He turned for one last framing glance
At the cool blondes, the shapely auburn-haired,
Whose shades whirled about him in a bawdy dance,
Lifting their crimson dresses, bosoms bared.
His fingers trembled toward Grace
Who modeled once more the postures of sin.
He read the brazen line on her painted face:
‘I don’t like cold things touching my skin.’
He would kill her, again, for saying that.
Strangle or stab, in living room and shower …
Hell swung into view like a Hollywood matte;
Kim and Tippi spun beyond his power.
At the helm, some likeness of their leading men
Directed his freight toward the paysage triste,
But their king-sized genius, scissors in hand,
Gazed backward till their movement ceased.
Laurence Goldstein, “Vertigo: A Sequel,” in Goldstein & Konigsberg (eds) The Movies: Texts, Receptions, Exposures. University of Michigan Press, 1996.