L.A. Confidential

L.A. Confidential

In the smouldering glow of the City of Angels,
the night drapes itself with noir‑tinted colour,
a lark‑winged wind rattles the shutters of old palaces,
and every back‑alley whispers a favourite crime.

The stars are tarnished freckled on a silver programme,
districts where palm‑leaf shadows dance over chrome,
while a borrowed cigarette breathes life into a loft –
a secret waiting for a police officer to realise.

I, a wandering paper‑stroller from Oxford’s mead,
stride past flickering holo‑advertisements, my quill trembling,
trying to analyse the riddles of Marlowe and Maura,
whose eyes hold a loathing as full as a boot of despair.

The city spills eclipse‑black gin into the Red‑Light district,
and the film plays on a giant screen, the soundtrack’s beat
giving weight to an unforgettable epistle:
"L.A. Confidential" – a labyrinth of horror, thrill, and love.