The first time I saw Susie was at the Victoria & Albert Museum in London
and when she came walking in,
all the things I had obsessed over for all
the years - pictures of movie stars,
Jenny Agutter in the billabong,
Anita Ekberg in the fountain,
Ali MacGraw in her black tights,
images from the TV when I was a kid,
Barbara Eden
and Elizabeth Montgomery and Abigail,
Miss World competitions, Marilyn Monroe
and Jennifer Jones and Bo Derek
and Angie Dickinson as Police Woman,
Maria Falconetti and Suzi Quatro,
Bolshoi ballerinas and Russian gymnasts,
Wonder Woman and Barbarella
and supermodels and Page 3 girls,
all the endless, impossible fantasies,
the young girls at the Wangaratta pool
lying on the hot concrete,
Courbet's Origin Of The World,
Bataille's bowl of milk,
Jean Simmons' nose ring,
all the stuff I had heard
and seen and read.
Advertising and TV commercials,
billboards and fashion spreads
and Playmate of the Month,
Caroline Jones dying in Elvis's arms,
Jackie O in mourning,
Tinker Bell trapped in the drawer,
all the continuing, never-ending
drip-feed of erotic data
came together at that moment
in one great big crash-bang
and I was lost to her
and that was that.
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