Your Marilyn Monroe face is coating me in nostalgia.

There's old school Hollywood appeal about you that's keeping me still and set in my ways, because how could I be mobile looking at the iconic images of you?

For you gave me refuge from my purgatory, I'm stuck here in my bedroom, your scenes each carefully curated by Billy Wilder or God...

I've heard you're a dying breed but you're so full of life and charisma.

Oh, I know it's hopeless,
But it's been remastered time and again,
1080p being the latest format to get my heart racing,
Letting your DVD spin to the point of exhaustion.

It's very consequential and I'm still betting on this,
I can't take your word as gospel when I feel you in my ribs...

I'm painfully asthmatic and respiring on your sighs.

I stare into your kerosene eyes with great envy,
Knowing I should usurp the gold in your palms, that gold on your wrist,
And the gold wrapped around your deceitful heart.

Only in knowing your nightmares do your dreams taste so sweet,
But, Love, I'm only imagining.
///
I am only imagining, as this concept is foreign.

You are never just a face in a box, you are the reason I'm straining out of my nightmares,
Because yesterday, you choked me until I woke full of life.

I want to taste the ***** on your breath.
I want to feel you give way to constructive reasoning.

But there exists such restriction,
Such impedance to my thousand day cardiac arrest, for which I got no trial,
And holding you back is truly the antithesis of joy,
And if not yours, then ever so selfishly, mine.

Regardless, I'm sick of holding it in.

We are on the path to greatness,
Living now in the full stretch of waiting,
Knowing that something is distinctly different in the shade of our dreams.

How will we lie down and wonder about the human condition with clusters of expensive stars decorating our bodies?

Will the fame change us—

Will I find you buried under your silk and pearls, as you took the pleasantries with you to end your suffering, and the world taking note, being still for a moment.

I hope to never deliver a eulogy on the theme of pale fire that could not sustain,

And I hope to find the means to stay under each other's skin.

Else, there is no point to this deranged endeavor,
And we just as well should be forgotten.

Earned under great spell of segregation,
With luster grand and blinding glimmers of false hope,
Standing like Trajan over his land, twice the spoils of war.

We must now thwart the hatred,
We must now look our brothers in the skin and decide if we can shoot them in the mouth.

Where lies the liberty in mysticism?
Why is this culture facilitating our schism,
And how now will we draw our party lines, or be done with them for a line in the sand?

Let us not fold in the face of dictatorship.

This cathedral was ruined by dust,
Your altar has gone out
And you smell so strongly of the pine trees you rest your head under.

I wish I could bottle you,
Either to have that aroma at my disposal,
Or a shot of you to drown out my hardships.

Each day moves in sequence with great emphasis on the orchards,
Bearing myriad fruits,
Such heavy blossoms in sequence with your arrival.

I'll wish I wouldn't have locked myself away,
Away from the sunlight—
The good sunbeams that grant entrance into life,
Spending all my time lamenting for the world around me.

Seems like no time to feel love now,
Only time to cry for the love I let go to waste.

They say that Angels play the harp,
But I'm coming to realize
That's allegorical *******.

The harp, such beautiful tone color,
(Tied to purity and innocence)
Yet have the Angels no say in the matter?

I've met hundreds of angels shrouded in cacophony.

I'm coming to realize none play the ******* harp,

Each angel marching to their own John Sousa or Joe Strummer, none alike.

Let's throw out the fascist visions of angels and know only that they are strong, and they are numerous...

They may not love you nor serve your God,

But they exist all around you,

And I implore you to know that these are your muses, your goddesses, spirits of all shapes—

Do not reduce them to harp players.

I welcome a crowbar behind my timid brown eyes,
For I hurt with horrible magnitude and I've been shaking all night.

I wish to feel the thunder of deconstruction in my bones,
And to reign upon this lonesome land with guilt free mind.