Some years ago, some friends & I took a
memorable trip            to Marilyn Monroe's crypt;
one of     many apparently; I don't how that works
but to this day,                 I still tell my friend who
was w/ me,              she must've been right outside
taking pictures of headstones   when I approached
Miss Marilyn Monroe's           sarcophagus hidden
behind a wall of thinly pressed marbles tiles;
& putting my hand to the name on the raised
bronze plague         Marilyn Monroe
                  born Norma Jeane Mortenson;
                  June 1, 1926 – August 5, 1962
             I bowed my head in imitation of Dylan's
St. Augustine & just then I got a whiff of corpse,
long dead & acrid,   but it was the distinct stench
of rotting flesh or whatever else remained,    hair blacked
@ the roots,  fingernails, breast implants; farts, O
for the stink of dead Marilyn's final expulsion; the
evacuation of the dead never seeming so dreamy;
creamy on top & crusted on the bottom where it
lay resting crushed below the dead weight of the most,
most perfect buttocks ever to get skinny so fast
                                                       & melt away
                                   into withered fat & flesh;    
                               muscle & bone dehydrating
in cold storage;              |       it must have stank
like sweet **** but for the sweeter perfume
wafting from the vents w/ a subtle hint of frankincense;    
I'd gladly climb in beside her to this   day;                
             the crypt the size of a good-size condominium;                
Sylvia P.'s           hips so finely drawn & thin,
still my tongue would have run rings around
the Poetess' minute perforation of a surely
constipated **** & when she went to the loo
I'm sure it stank to hell
                  too; but shallow is the hole where
                  |    the nose probes below, sniffing
like a bloodhound to catch the scent of the death
of a Beautiful Woman;            it was Edgar Allen Poe,  
who said
            this was the most Beautiful Subject in a poem;
& suddenly I knew just what he meant,         
       what Novalis meant
        by jerking off over his young wife's grave;
like anyone willing to **** a randy old woman,
some of whom are professional ****** from the Old Country;  
I imagine there aren't many left,                                              
             ­                  maybe a few,  
like those starving Holocaust survivors I saw once on bad            
late-night TV &
 nowhere else,     dying off & leaving a Frigid Generation
                         of Women traumatized by centuries            
of acculturated horseplay & falderol;    
boys being boys & girls being whatever,
sweetly smelling         of hidden things like the dark
echoing chambers of the unknown beneath her seat;            
where she sits & ***** & pees & we all stand around
to see the holes open & spew their effluvia
like hot custard cream
& we lap it up like mangy dogs who will eat
of the Mistress' **** beneath the table cloth &  
        | in our      wake &      |      theirs is  
the legacy of feminism   otherwise suffocated
by psychic pantyhose;    she refuses to remove them: |
she just can't get it off her head;            
                  no matter how many
jeweled tiara's              we put on it; u're the ******* Queen,             
okay, rule, jeez;
men are stupid, ladies;          give us ***** & liquor
                                             & u've pretty much got
                                                              ou­r attention