I took the last train from town.

Travelling, ‘In the Heat of the Night’.

A bottle of Bourbon, and a book on James Dean.

My only companions for the journey ahead.

Jimmy had a brother, ‘A Rebel without a Cause’.

A mother had a son, a widow without a clue.

Chaplin had Stanley, silent to sound, ‘Modem Times’.

Rules for icons, faded legends, ‘Gone with the Wind’.

Images and models, of the systems silver screen.

The likes of which, you and I will never see again.

I do not want to believe, that Marilyn died that way.

I do not want to believe, that my western hero was gay.

I do not want to believe, that Brando's mind had gone.

I do not want to believe, that Elvis had a swan song.

I just want to remember them, the way they were.

Follow the yellow brick road of dreams, into the emerald city.

A reality crumbled in the ruins of torture, booze, pills and pity.

Villas of decadence, sit tranquil upon their Beverly Hills.

Two-way mirrors, pornography filmed, for the bosses thrills.

‘Some Like It Hot’, ‘Whatever Happened To Baby Jane’?

Counting the dollars, canning the good guys, shifting morals and blame.

I do not want to believe, that the giant was wrong.

I do not want to believe, that Flynn took drugs.

I do not want to believe, that Gable was not cool.

I do not want to believe, that Garland was a fool.

I just want to remember them, the way they were.

(Photography by Gary Peters)