"monroe" poems
Seriously?!
I'm a ****
Wait. No you're not. Hold on.
I can't find...
I can't find my ******* Help me look.
blankets flung.
nothing.
You're...
you're laughing right now?
How could you not?
Can you see that
we're standing in a
giant pond of
ridiculosity.
a glasses lense
popped out.
hair a nest
of invisible
rodents.
his belt
all askew worried
face pursed
lips.
shirt tails- a crumpled
facade of the pressed
summer evening shadows
outlined behind
the lawn sprinklers from
the night before.
and in the cab
to work
phone almost
dies. 37 degree damp
heat pressing
against the car
like a monroe-type
kitten from the
50s.
the morning world
bustling awake
the driver asks
'you work this
afternoon?'
shake my head 'no'
slowly working the
knots out of my
hair
brace for the last
day.
And I'm
still missing
my underwear.
Jun 20, 2012
Jun 20, 2012 at 1:02 AM UTC
Photography,
Photo journalistic,
Everyday, realistic.
Commercial, architecture, landscape, artistic,
Industrial, fashion, ethnographic, pornographic.
Big Brother, fallace, stealer of souls, vouyer.
News seller, instant gratifier, man pleaser, woman abuser.
Barthes, Sontag, Cindy Sherman,
Virginia Woolf, Warhol. Weegie, Francesca Woodman,
Leibovitz, Adams, Arbus, Tina Modotti,
Nan, Evans, Hoffer and even the Paparazzi.
Cheap ***** digital manipulator, image poser,
Center fold, coupons, Jackie O and Marilyn Monroe.
Where did they go:
Lifeless paper product, painter's picture mess,
C-type, digital archival,
Sepia, black and white, hard drive retrival.
Image addict,
Image taker,
Image maker,
image seller,
image buyer.
Newspaper, magazine, graphics and ads,
TV, dreams, even the trash.
Billboards, subways, phones and buses:
Utopia:
Surreal, crop, stretched and air brushes.
Modern ideal.
Surface manipulator.
Brain conditioner.
Consent manufacturer.
Oh Photography,
I got you in my eye.
A few thousand dollars,
A BFA, A critical scholar.
Or maybe a nerd,
Just boys with toys.
Telephoto genitals, with motor drive action.
Studio lights, umbrella traction.
Oh Photography,
You proprietor of obscene.
Detailed, de-sensitized.
Court ordered, jury analyzed.
Click, image, copy, edit, paste, print or post.
Myfacespace, twitter, flicker,
An internet media overdose.
Pry, spy, your friend's friend's acquaintances.
Parties, picnics, reunions and shows.
Visits, vacation, style, shoes and clothes.
Pics, photos, images, jpegs and giffs.
Snap shot, portrait, panoramic, Kodak kiss.
Exacerbate:
Divorce, break-ups, jealousy, envy, love and fears.
Devour and captivate society for years.
Slaves to Western and Capitalist desires,
Destruction of Earth with psychological, monetary empires.
Jan 11, 2010
Jan 11, 2010 at 7:05 AM UTC
I wrote you a poem and all you said was “I love you!”
and I need a whole lot more than that
Did you know Marilyn Monroe was borderline too
and what did that leave her besides a suicidal mess I do not look up to?
But I guess she did **** JFK so there's that
Today is valentines day and I didn’t say anthing to you about it
because I know you hate February 14
because 2 years ago you had that major surgery
You didn’t talk to me until 4:20 today
and that was only to laugh about the timing
and it's really hard for me to not tell you that I wanted to **** myself today but instead I wrote 5 poems and drank too much coffee
and **** I would really **** for a cigarette right now that
I have to use my charm to get
because im only 17 but somehow
I always “forget” my ID and wear a low cut shirt
and flirt openly with the 40 year old indian guy across the counter
just so I can get my illegal nicotine
I wonder what my mother would say about that
Feb 14, 2014
Feb 14, 2014 at 10:55 PM UTC
Existential cruelty of a long abandoned Friday
Remembered once, twice
then forgotten by 8 pm.
The shots of Chiraq and memories of Hatshepsut linger effortlessly on his doorstep in the dark of sunlight,
but smiles in his lap disappear on the pavement beneath skyscrapers
before the dead of noon.
His mind travels to the curvy bodies of Monroe types.
A palm, a fist, a thumb
caress ******* and legs before he wakes
to find hair on his pillow and lips in his face
where only days before a yellow sky and bright green eyes waved and faded.
And all because interracial pride and prejudice leaked toils and tensions in the face of Basquiat
Where once African princes and white German queens
spent Tuesday afternoons charming their ways into each others' beds
and sighing at the disgust stamped on the faces of strangers.
Jul 12, 2013
Jul 12, 2013 at 11:43 PM UTC
Yo soy *****
**** immigration and the racist white tèjanõs, please tell me how the hell would they ever know what I know, shout out to my Mexicans Hondurans and black Cubanos shut the border down call it the no fly zone. Adios Americanos me and my amigos are stealing ya women and playin em like pianos, vocal terrorist this lyrical revolt should be your primary interest. Public enemy number one the domestic hectic terrorist I'm influencing your white son, right to bear these nuts I'm taking the tea parties guns stealing your freedom from right up under you, all your jobs, and way of life, your point of view. I'm the original black power ranger hide your right winged minds if not I swear they'll be in danger. I am the broken brick the stone left unturned the rhythm of the wind the willingness to learn and the desire to fight and get what you earn. I am the individual placed on the no fly list with my hand balled into a fist cause my turbin is too tight and my beards to thick. I am the man choked to death by nypd for selling cigarettes now I'm rioting with my words doing lyrical pirouettes. Yo soy ***** spitting jive like lingo I want a Pam Grier keep your Marilyn Monroe, from the 6th borough buckin like bronco they said finish em I'm educated and black had to hit em with the combo. I'm non fictions Huey Freeman battling congress and their demons catch me flexing on the law lookin like the black He-Man Standing up for what I believe in writing in my notepad I stay steady schemin with my head up in the clouds I stay steady dreamin. Yo soy ***** freeze em like sub zero not concerned with dolores or the dinero yen or bills yo, I'm still waiting for marvel to make a Mexican superhero.
Dec 25, 2014
Dec 25, 2014 at 11:05 AM UTC
I frequent a little taco stand
Every time that I'm out west
With Elvis behind the counter
Dressed in his leathers best
Janice Joplin doing dishes
With Southern Comfort breath
Arguing with fry cook Jim Morrison
Over the best way of cheating death
Jimi Hendrix works the tables
That they have set up out front
Recommending the mushroom taco
With the psychedelic crunch
Marilyn Monroe...the entertainment
Nightly serenades the gents
While wearing here favorite T-shirt
Bobby Kennedy for president
I highly recommend the little taco stand
If you ever find yourself out West
Who's going to show up to take your order that day
Could be anybody's guess
Aug 14, 2013
Aug 14, 2013 at 7:51 AM UTC
The birthday song is not a song it's not even a small ditty
As it is only four lines long it's really rather ******
There isn't a good chorus so isn't that a pity
A catchy tune it has not got and the lyrics are not witty
This song's lyrics are so short and there all the ****** same
Apart from the 3rd line down when you substitute a name
Okay you say "Dear" instead of "To", but its still a basic frame
So this is not a song at all so why has it got the fame
It's no wonder people alter the words with monkeys in the zoo
And looking like these critters and smelling like them too
Or changed to bread and butter in the gutter or squashed tomatoes and stew
Because the song is so boring so what else can you do
Who the hell wrote this song was it someone who's autistic
Come on now lets be frank and a bit more realistic
If I where to write this song producers would go ballistic
I'd get thrown out of the biz and become a lost statistic
Just because it's your birthday I'm not singing about happy
People are compelled to sing when really its just ******
It's not the best song in the world I don't want to sound so snappy
The birthday song is full of crap just like a soiled *****
It's like we are pre programmed even Marilyn Monroe
To sing the ****** birthday song just for ****** show
But honestly this song is crap and it can surely go
And we can stop with the pretence and cease going with the flow
When your birthday does arrive and your expecting a big day
The time will come when you know your ears are going to pay
Cos someone's bound to start it with or without your say
Why does it have to be sung does it have to be this way
Singing the birthday song should not be a life compulsion
Don't succumb to the trend and quash your minds impulsion
Stamp down on the process and enforce a song expulsion
Do away with this song and all of its revulsion
The birthday song is not a song when it's sixteen words long
Half of them are happy birthday that doesn't constitute a song
The wording is so ****** thin as thin as a snapped thong
And the musical arrangement isn't even strong
People should not sing this song not even a small bit
Why is it classed as a song we should stop singing it
Most of the words are the same and there is a lack of wit
So don't sing the birthday song cos it's not a song it's ****
Jan 11, 2018
Jan 11, 2018 at 8:14 AM UTC
Jesus Christ, Lord Almighty
Expel my demons and watch them die with me
Satan Lord, Leviathan
Give my demons an interesting origin
Plague me with poets smoking joints rolled with rejected poems
Fill my thoughts with cockney accented thespians
Let them hold Academy award nominations from films long forgotten
Enthuse my self-destruction
Bring me goth kids brought up in wholesome homes
Bring me Art school students choosing to abandon their degrees
Bring me women aroused by smashed clocks
Bring me men aroused by awkward teenagers
Bring me Christians questioning their faith
Lord Almighty, God, Yahweh, Jehovah
Tell me the story of your disagreements with Vishnu
Let me see Moloch's disgruntlement and subsequent drunk and disorderly
Show me when Hera was seducing your nephew
Bring me into the world of the soap opera battles
Write to me Paris
Write to me Paris
I want to read your poetry
I want to read your mind
Sing to me Helen
Embrace me and we shall escape from torments
Heavenly and humane
We shall watch hipsters walk past us
Smoking Spirits and drinking poison berry teas
Let Adam grow disgruntled
Let children laugh
If, Lord Jesus, you grant me my wish
Send me a djinn with evil in his heart
Who's bound to be annoyed by my desires
Send me an ent to lift me above my world
Send me an elf to love me for all my time
Send me a mountain to travel over home
Transport me to Germany
Transport me to Spain
Transport me to New Zealand
Give me a free pass, one-way ticket to Darwin's islands
Write my story so that I collect new, unprecedented species
And devour the flesh of my find
Hide me in Antarctica with a monstrous creation of my own mind
Let me eat
Let me gorge
Then starve me
Show me Caligula
Show me Marilyn Monroe
Then leave me with Ed Wood
And force me to watch his films so that I may inherit my grandfather's fortune in comic books
Which, of course, will bring her to love me again
Oh Lord Jesus
Lord of Hosts
Possess me so that I may live again
Feb 24, 2012
Feb 24, 2012 at 4:56 PM UTC
Ta-ta Norma Drainpipe
Though I never shagged you at all
You ****** the rhythm to ******* yourself
While those around you ate crow
They schlepped out of the cleavage
And they ********** into your crumpet
They ******* you on the rowing machine
And they copulated you **** your three *****
And it seems to me you tasted your *****
Like a cigarette lighter in the diarrhoea
Never knowing who to stick it out to
When the ooze congeal from the top drawer
And I would have liked to have had carnal knowledge of you
But I was just a twit
Your cigarette lighter exploded spew out long before
Your whiff never blewout
Stiffness was sticky
The gristliest fat part you ever nibbled
Hollywood cobbled together a wizzofrog
And ******** was the corkage you greased
Even when you conked out
Oh the lubricator still molested you
All the skeletons had to jabber
Was that Marilyn was ***** flashy the starkers
Ta-ta Norma Drainpipe
from the virginal wombat in the twenty—second ghetto
Who smells you as meat as above par than scatological
Olé! than frank our Marilyn Monroe
Apr 1, 2010
Apr 1, 2010 at 4:17 PM UTC
rihanna and lana del rey
please don't become her
one day
dorothy dandridge
whitney houston
marilyn monroe
anna nicole
their sadness I did know
beautiful and broken
the pain never let go
the men, the drugs,
the heartache followed
they were all a living example:
misery is captivating
and beauty is shallow
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 9:28 PM UTC
horns squawk
rainforest avenues
exoskeleton
of cars
arteries clogged
with unlovely taxi cabs
fat green fruit
for sale
five languages
merge into a knot
hisses kiss vowels
kiwis apples pears
black guys basketball
debt rises like blood pressure
stocks tumble
but we walk
brogues clop on concrete
count brick after brick
sun cascades
over roof slates
mind cracks in slabs
(you say
Monroe stood here)
heat quivers
men are dominoes
suits for the office
a funeral
designer sneakers
daddy paid for
pigtails cheap thrills
violet octagons
on a stranger’s neck
(behind the closed doors)
today
I drink purple water
aubergine lips
remind me
of a Tuscany Superb
list the names
Houston Charlton
Leroy Sullivan
Perry Cornelia
Dominick and Jane
(ladders lead
away from me
close to
you)
and back again
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 12:24 PM UTC
Marilyn Monroe was beautiful
She was sad,
yes oh so sad.
want
people either wanted her
or
wanted to be her.
She is gone yet
you can feel her sadness
you can see her beauty.
It is stored like a jewel
in the places she is immortalized,
magazine ads
movies
posters
books
the internet.
Her sadness made her beautiful
as well as her happiness.
Aren’t we all a little of both?
Yin and Yang
Her happiness was so
extreme
her sadness was so
extreme
yin
yang
her balance was intoxicating
you cant look away
beautiful so so so **** beautiful
I want to be that
I want people to stare while I walk by.
I get a rush when I feel the eyes staring
at me.
Power, I feel powerful when I walk bye
and his eyes are burning through me
but I never stop I just walk right by him
he will never have me.
I feel power but I am scared.
of him
of me
ying
yang
gemini
her and I
the sign of the twins
2 minds one body
ying
yang
what a confusing thing to be a gemini
I hate it
no I love it.
base my life of the stars?
crazy most people say
no, everything is connected
me
the stars
you
marilyn
we are all connected.
champagne
pills
numb the pain she said.
Sweet, people call me sweet
**** people tell me
I am ****
yin
yang
Sweet and **** oh I am
a lucky girl to be both.
not one day no
there is not a day I would deny
a glass of champagne
or
happiness compressed
into that white white
pill
mask the pain
embrace the pleasure.
I want love
I want so many men to fall
in
love with me,
that I will let so many drop
and fall
because I only have 2 arms to catch them.
But it wont matter
they will come
crawling back
again and again.
love
hate
yin
yang
Intoxicating
you wont be able to get away.
you can’t, no one can
run run
Did I ever tell you? Me and Marilyn are quite the same.
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 5:00 AM UTC
*No, no, no, Dirtbreath. I say we call the big one an elephant,
and the small one a mouse*.
Eve
I'm sure red's a better color for me.
M. Monroe
She has a face that could sink a thousand ships.
Ulysses
*Now that Hawking's dead, I'm the smartest
guy on Earth.*
D. Trump
You're too Jung to understand the Superego.
S. Freud
No. You keep it. I have enough.
B. Graham
Are you sure that's the Delaware?
G. Washington
E=Mc Donalds.
A. Einstein
Go pound salt.
Gandhi
What day is it?
Roosevelt
That's one small.... oops!
N. Armstrong
I don't remember any of my dreams.
M.L. King, Jr.
Hey, John, I can see your house from up here.
Jesus
Beaches, fields, streets, hills. Did I leave anything out?
W. Churchill
Yeah, yeah, yeah, of course I wrote 'em all.
R. Starr
It's just too big to wrap your brain around.
S. Hawking
Don't lose your head. This won't change a thing.
Robespierre
Before I was fined, I walked the line.
J. Cash
Could you lengthen the title and shorten the book?
Tolstoy's editor
What if we put the workers on conveyor belts?
H. Ford
I have a splitting headache... hmmm, interesting.
Oppenheimer
I've never liked orange juice.
N. Brown
Really? You want to blame me?
******
He stings like a butterfly.
S. Liston
#timesup #metoo
A. Boleyn
Mr. Watson. Come here. Spare me a dime?
Bell
Roebuck said he'd be back in ten minutes.
R.W. Sears
To be or to do be do be do.
Shakespeare/Sinatra
*When you call me Whitey, I get cotton pickin ****** off.*
E. Whitney
We're the team to beat!
Toronto Maple Leafs
Don't call me a Mother!
Mother Theresa
Is that a Cuban?
M. Lewinsky
Apr 30, 2018
Apr 30, 2018 at 6:50 AM UTC
I frequent a little taco stand
Every time I'm out in the Mid-West
With Elvis behind the counter
Dressed in his leather best
Janice Joplin doing the dishes
With enchilada breath
Arguing with the fry cook Jim Morrison
Over the best way of cheating death
Jimi Hendrix works the tables
That they have set up out front
Recommending the mushroom taco
With the psychedelic crunch
Marilyn Monroe...the entertainment
Nightly serenades the gents
Wearing her favorite T-shirt
Bobby Kennedy for president
I highly recommend the little taco stand
If you ever find yourself out West
Who's going to show up to take your order that day
Could be anybody's guess...
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 6:14 PM UTC
The assassins hit in 63
And Camelot was gone,
Inspiration vanished
And the darkness sang it’s song.
*Vietnam escalated
Brezhnev’s Russia loomed,
Africa was eviscerated
And Red China entombed.
*Floating on a long white cloud
The Kiwis were replete
With abundant British markets
For their butter, wool and meat.
*The Europeans went ****
And Britain lost it’s way
When the Beatles and the Rolling Stones
Monopolized their day.
*Man landed on the moon
And raised the Yankee flag
And they shot Mahatma Ghandi
For making good things out of bad.
*The Berlin Wall dividing,
The Cold War tense and spare,
ICBM’s threaten silently
In their silos of despair.
*Bob Menzies ruled Australia
As an amassing of his loot
And his White Australia Policy
Condemned him as a brute.
*Found naked on her tousled bed,
Blonde hair across her face,
Marylin Monroe is dead
The world’s a darker place.
*In the Age of Aquarius
Our children lost their youth,
LSD and smoking ***
And Afro’s were the proof.
*Lots of leg in miniskirts,
High bouffant’s in the hair,
Screaming teeny boppers
Rock with Elvis on “the Air”.
*Giant, Rawhide, Ponderosa,
Martin Luther King,
Kaftans and a cheese fondue,
Abortion is a sin!
It’s a sixties kaleidoscope,
A panoramic skim
Of an era of wonderment
Which you and I lived in.
Marshalg
@the Gate
Mangere Bridge
20th January 2009
Oct 23, 2009
Oct 23, 2009 at 2:25 PM UTC
I know about lying on broken bones, beading into my back.
She was missing something.
She was lying on hands searching through the trench coat of a bathroom romance, watching butterflies melt,
She was becoming herself
At four thirty am I write her account, embroidered in a diary of lullabies,
“this is what death must feel like, being left alone in a street screaming of footsteps and blacked out whispering.”
She threw deliverance, caked over old vengeance, out of the car window with daybreak’s kisses. She writes,
“I sit in the heavy sleet of the delta drowning in resurrection, grime from age wipes over me once,
twice,
The broken blood pools out of ‘I love you’s’ and islets.”
She slept with the darkness.
“Prayers don’t come for me anymore.”
She glitters, shivers, tactless as a teacup in an earthquake,
She is awake.
”I am awake.”
She documents God- "I feel God,"
- in herself. "In myself.”
There is a silence.
A burning, left, cold to dry alone,
This is for her.
Call it, my face, swathed in the impenetrable darkness when it is no longer my own, call it an aunt’s love when a mother’s doesn’t suffice any longer. Call it,
cigarette buds and elevator rides to death’s door. Call it power bubbling up from the violation.
This is for you; call it Cuban cigars, show tunes, and Marylyn Monroe;
call it misery. Missing, call it hues and paint, my life prostrated on a disgruntled canvas. Call it fate.
This is for you.
Call it liquor stains and tarot cards in a fit of ecstasy. Epilepsy, call it the most intricate balancing act of existence.
An unseen performance, a lyric with no voice,
“a cry in the night”
”a scream of supplication”
The hunters’ march to death, the Holy Grail’s melting between your fingers, civilization pouring through veins,
“death, destruction, life, happiness, Azrael, Abbadon, blood, Rome!”
“I don’t want to feel this!”
Call it whispers of unspoken meetings and witches in the night, threatening,
“I know you!”
“No you don’t! Leave me alone.” Recognition. “I don’t want to listen…”
She writes,
“I loved you…
On purpose and…you left me,
with,
myself.”
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 8:57 PM UTC
Monroe Ave c. 2018, in my own dream land. K. Daniel's Revelation, cannot reverse what's starting to happen. Darker, more forlorn. No more bar and restaurant patrons, the streets are just a scattered herd of pestilence. No cars, the somnambules own the streets in silence. Honey dripping hipsters, years gone. ***** clothes, hair past their pearls. Asking for boy, asking for O.P.s, asking for girl, asking for crack, asking for methamphetamines. The only noise.
We lost the reclamation of the city our parents left. Escaping dead end cul-de-sacs of basement poverty, we no longer had to drive. Stacked with our friends in tenement commune. We delivered the body we consume in service, catering to a more privileged few. Only responsible for one when long work was done, I ensured my red blood's full of fun. We drank and inebriated with design when allowed more free time. But, darling, I think this town was already gentrified. We changed no thing.
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 11:03 PM UTC
A red jumper
in the airing cupboard,
thrown over a pipe,
drooping like it had melted.
“Académie culinaire de Toulouse l’enfant”
on the breast in fractured, iron-on plastic.
It was perfect.
Something that wouldn’t be missed.
I took my sister’s wave-edge scissors to it.
I took it to bits,
all but a jagged circle of a sun
full of furry solar storms
of thread ends.
I ignored the red fluff
falling slowly
like so much ****** snow,
mixing into carpet fibres
under my bare feet.
And my heat
Disperses into invisibility
everything but the colour,
like any memory will.
-
A green t-shirt,
it looks up at me lostly,
toyishly small,
from some forgotten shop
bought at some forgotten time.
A childhood comfort still smiling
but not soft anymore.
The front’s all robots smashing apart tower blocks
with tin pincers and laser vision.
People’s screams of indicision.
Staticky speech bubbles,
broken car windows,
exclamation marks.
And a Marilyn monroe type
in the midst of the fray,
bra half-undone,
hand cupped to her mouth
Calling into some furious colonised sky
into which I pinned my sun.
-
A cornish cream baby grow
with grandmother stitched flowers
hours of sowed leaves.
A polka dot horizon
and an orchard's evening shadow
from a lifetime’s washing.
It showed.
So I sowed my mechanical horrors
and it’s crimson fear atmosphere
onto the pastel world.
And now it’s all there.
Jul 12, 2016
Jul 12, 2016 at 8:11 PM UTC
My daughter will not crawl from crib to tanning bed.
She will learn
the terms “unnattainable beauty standards” before she learns the alphabet.
She will never compare herself
to anyone.
She will never compare herself to Britney, Christina, Selena.
She will never compare herself to Cinderella, Ariel, Belle,
Hell. No.
She will never aspire to be the sultry *** kitten taking seductive showers in shampoo commercials.
No.
My daughter will be named Venus.
The goddess of love, beauty, fertility,
The most beautiful woman I ever saw.
She is plump, fullfigured barebreasted wide hipped with curly hair covered mons
Goddess.
My daughter will grow up to be ****** poisonously beautiful
With long locks of goldenrodred hair, like her mother.
Greyblueblack eyes and shoulder freckles, like her father.
And if I can never become pregnant,
my sisters daughters will be my daughters
skin the color of cinnamon or chocolate, or vanilla ice cream
and just as sweet.
Men, women, boys, girls will pine over her, fall in love with her radiating skin
that will never look photoshopped, but always real.
As if the sun came down from the sky to give her the glow of all the light in the universe.
She will love her body the way that my mother taught me to love mine.
I will show her pictures of Whoopi Goldberg and America Ferrera and Margaret Cho and Marilyn Monroe
And she will know that beauty
is not a synonym
for skinny.
Beauty
is not a synonym for
****
Beauty is not defined by size
or color
or texture, no.
It is defined by how she distributes
her love
and light
to everyone she meets.
no exceptions.
and she will never doubt that she is lovely.
Sep 2, 2011
Sep 2, 2011 at 11:47 AM UTC
Dear rainbows,
Thank you.
Thank you for showing that out of every storm comes
something so inexplicably beautiful that we often stop all that we are doing to admire you.
Thank you for being a bright light at the end of every struggle.
The day that you don’t shine after a terrible storm is the day that I give up.
Thank you For your every hue.
Larger than life, your bright colors streaming across the sky,
Thank you for being a beacon to all of our allies.
I reach for you and your beauty.
Thank you for being the symbol of an identity I hold so dear
For your colored stripes are ever so often my only hope.
Thank you for giving me strength when I need it most
You tell us, not to give up when life is unfair, to not succumb to our despair
Thank you for being this, Mirage of heaven
The prettiest woman, a reborn Marilyn Monroe
Thank You For I can feel your hands guiding me
Down every bumpy road
Thank you for standing tall
Like paint trickling down from the sky
Thank you for being the bay and meadow
While the clouds fly high above your head
Thank you, for defining all my colors
All the colors of my rainbow eyes
Thank you for your rare kind of beauty
For, heckling the rain
Thank you, for brightening the sky
The vibrant shades of the world
Thank you for cheering me up
Even on the darkest of days
Thank you, because after the world glistens with rain
It's fun to explore what lies beyond your end
Jan 12, 2018
Jan 12, 2018 at 9:57 AM UTC
Walking to work, I saw Joan Rivers
Blowing me a kiss today
Through a store window on Indian
With that smirk you can't mistake
I crossed on Tahquitz Canyon drive,
Said "hi" to Lucille Ball,
and passed a smiling Elvis Presley,
rested against the Welwood wall.
This is where the ghosts of Hollywood dwell
Is this a Hollywood Heaven or a Hollywood Hell?
But this is where the ghosts of Hollywood dwell
the Shangri-La where the angels fell...
On a fountain's edge across the street,
Sits a grinning Sonny Bono,
and just north of there you'll find 26 feet
of Marilyn Monroe shadow.
and Frank Sinatra's voice is still heard
Crooning through the air at night,
while here forevermore at the El Mirador,
you'll find the pensive eyes of Albert Einstein.
This is where the ghosts of Hollywood dwell
Is this a Hollywood Heaven or a Hollywood Hell?
But this is where the ghosts of Hollywood dwell
the Shangri-La where the angels fell...
When the stars die,
they might fall from the sky,
but they never truly disappear
cuz you'll always find them here.
This is where the ghosts of Hollywood dwell
Is this a Hollywood Heaven or a Hollywood Hell?
But this is where the ghosts of Hollywood dwell
the Shangri-La where the angels fell...
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 7:15 PM UTC
Amaryllis in the Spring
because it's a pure & innocent thing
before a summer of rockets,
debris of hope—
*the Age of Discovery,
the Punishment of Lust*
an intravenous poison of decline forms
the new math: eye value minus itself
in waltz-time the body is radio-active,
there is no such thing as labor saving machinery
ask Garbo or Monroe, very happy one moment,
the next there was nothing left
their machines did the heavy lifting,
but one was not the loneliest number
Nov 30, 2021
Nov 30, 2021 at 10:14 PM UTC
When my mom was dying
We put a bed in the living room
Fresh from the hospital
In front of the piano
Behind the rocking chair
We still called it the "living room"
I didn't mention the cruel irony in that
And the living people
Who knew my mother
All came and sat around her
And we weren't allowed to touch her
Cause the morphine lost its memory
And every bit of her was falling down
Dozing in a straw house
When the weather man called for hurricanes
She was right there
But miles away from rescue efforts
And hand-holding daughters
Marilyn Monroe went the same way
In bed, I mean
Facedown
Her pill supply run out
And I imagine her room was a beautiful mess
Full of roses and tokens from insincere men
An icon deserves better than that
A pin up with no one
But ex-lovers and sheets to hold her
And a pillow stained with last lipstick kisses
All those little white beads of forgetfulness
Crawling on the floor
And happy birthday Mr. President
Billy woke up bawling the other night
In bed with a girl
Who was not my sister
And he called and told her he loved her still
She hugged my dog and cried into her fur
She finished the roll
Of toilet paper blowing her nose
There were three of us in bed that night
And two somewhere else
Continents, nations, states apart
The air in my room was like asphalt
And allergies weighing us down
Lulu barked at our crestfallen hearts
Under the supermoon
I turned into a twentysomethingwolf
Keen senses acute defenses
And all I could smell on my sheets
Was the kitchen I work in
I wanted to be human
Taste the fear and perfection
Of being a ******
In bed with a boy who is not family
A teenager whispering under sheets again
I stayed at home alone
Soothing, sighing, and howling sweet nothings
To my lonely bed
Telling mom and Marilyn Monroe
The fever dreams in my lone wolf head
Praying "please God, send us someone"
"Please God, let love burn us quick and strong"
"Please God, don't draw the blues out. We all buckle."
Jul 1, 2013
Jul 1, 2013 at 12:08 AM UTC
Marilyn Monroe (who
lived next door, and swore more
than anyone I know)
reckoned blondes had all the fun.
It didn’t seem so to me,
when her old man was home.
She was as glamorous as
our Mum was dowdy.
Her lot lived on freezer-food
and fizzy, while our Mum
slogged over a ****** gas-stove,
and washed-up without gloves on.
Marilyn Monroe told
our Mum that she should fight.
Our Mum gave, to Marilyn Monroe,
secret recipes for dog-food stew
and koi carp pie.
Mar 4, 2012
Mar 4, 2012 at 12:02 PM UTC