You can't see the H-O-L-L-Y-W-O-O-D sign
from Westwood Village (it's on the blind-side of the hills),
but it's easy to feel it's glitter-streaked fingertips
caressing your flesh and tickling you all about the ribcage.
Westwood Village is Playboy Mansion territory.
Bel-Air to the North. Beverly Hills to the East.
Westwood is where Marilyn Monroe’s bones lay in eternal rest.
The Majestic Crest Theater stands on the rise
like a shimmering mirage of vintage Art Deco delight.
A true landmark single-screen cinema. A beacon of hope.
Constructed in 1941 by Peter and Jane Fonda's mum,
it boasts its very own cyclorama depicting a variety
on Hollywoodland establishments from the Golden Age.
That'll be me, sat right at the back there,
eating salted popcorn like it’s going out of fashion.
That'll be my film, up there on the big-screen,
in glorious flicker-flicker monochromatic 35mm 1:85.
The fluorescent starlights on the theater's ceiling,
I've been reliably informed, are celestially accurate.
It's seven in the evening back in Finchley. And its raining.
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