Clive Owen
Most people have around a hundred thousand faces,
Some have slightly more,
Some have slightly less,
And then there are the Clive Owens.
Clive Owen is one of the fortunate few who has over a million faces.
To Jane Byers he was a friendly, down to earth neighbour,
To Preston Mosely he was that celeb he sold a house to.
To Rita Smith he was that man who was bad in bed,
To Isabella Milano he was a very charming customer.
To Greg Dore he was a difficult arsehole,
To Stephanie Ostmo he was the guy that annoyed her husband.
To Fatima Aghlab he was the most beautiful man in the world,
To Richard Harriott he was the shy child, hiding behind his mother’s skirt.
To Lisa Rowland he was the student with potential,
To Ludovic Marchais he was a sexual awakening.
To Abel Worku he was a deterrent from the cinema,
To Alfie Scott he was the reason to wear cable knit sweaters.
He was a good son,
He was a terrible son,
He was the smartest lad in the room,
He was the dimmest bulb in the room.
He was the coolest guy you ever met,
He was a creepy fucking recluse,
He was a brilliant artist,
He was shrewd businessman.
He was a difficult client,
He was the best friend you ever knew,
He was the reason to get out of bed,
He was the reason to stay under the covers.
Only Clive knew Clive Owen and Clive Owen knew that behind the millions of faces he owned,
Behind Jane Byers’ Clive Owen,
Behind Fatima Aghlab’s Clive Owen,
Behind Alfie Scott’s Clive Owen,
Clive Owen knew that Clive Owen never existed at all.
And that made Clive Owen smile.
