"norma" poems
two women
a single
Gemini
of desire
the yin
the yang
betwixt
the known
and unreachable
swinging
on wide
arcs of
extremis
inhabiting
opposite
polar worlds
and all
the spaces
in between
intrepid
sailors
dare hope
to explore
T
the outer
R
the inner
T’s
tiny
name
betrays
a big
robusto
femininity
bombastically
womanly
big *****
jazz *****
perfumed musky
hips and ****
that rock
and those
lips
oh,
those ruby red
Norma Jean lips
I’m puckered
up
begging her
to paste a big
rouge smooch
on my eager lips
press those
bustling bosoms
onto my face
wrap those
arms round me
with a rasperous
hug
shake me
with gyrations
of your gracious
shimmy thang
you wow
the bow
out of this
dog
taking lovers
prisoner
with the
coy blink
of wide
eyes
flashing
lashes
batting
brow
boldly
being
a force
of a
mothers
nature
bearing
and
belting
Bessie’s
*****
blues
to a
howling
crowd
wanting
more
fully
enthralled
bedazzled
enraptured
with quixotic
hypnotics
I'm frozen
solid
hoping to
melt
into the
heat
of your
inviting
fire
R
bespeaks
whispers
from an
inner place
she lines the
lost desires
of a yearning heart
she offers the
softest curves
the delicious touch
the wet presence
of a delicate tongue
limpid fingers
hide shy sly
*******
offering
invitations
to hidden nests
humming the incarnate
dark forest secrets
of bloomed lilacs
and sweet carnations
the voice of poems
dance and flutter
from her mouth
as the lightest
butterfly
wings wayward
onto soft hearts
yearning
seducement
her
kimono
gently parts
at the slightest
suggestion
of a rising
breeze
her songs
invite lovers
to pillowed
chambers
daring
intrepid
men to
risk the
death of
desirous
tempests
I melt
into the
delicate
complexity
of your
fleshy heat
my dear
celestial
twins
the lovely
Gemini
each different
reduce me
in differing ways
to a puddle
of rippling water
reflecting
the glorious
elegance of
wondrous
ambrosial
femininity
Dedicated to
T& R
Music Selection:
Barbra Streisand
Pretty Women
Oakland
4/26/12
jbm
Apr 29, 2012
Apr 29, 2012 at 10:56 PM UTC
¿Qué es esto? ¡Prodigio! Mis manos florecen.
Rosas, rosas, rosas a mis dedos crecen.
Mi amante besóme las manos, y en ellas,
¡Oh gracia! brotaron rosas como estrellas.
Y voy por la senda voceando el encanto
Y de dicha alterno sonrisa con llanto
Y bajo el milagro de mi encantamiento
Se aroman de rosas las alas del viento.
Y murmura al verme la gente que pasa:
-«¿No veis que está loca? Tornadla a su casa.
¡Dice que en las manos le han nacido rosas
Y las va agitando como mariposas!»
¡Ah, pobre la gente que nunca comprende
Un milagro de éstos y que sólo entiende,
Que no nacen rosas más que en los rosales
Y que no hay más trigo que el de los trigales!
Que requiere líneas y color y forma,
Y que sólo admite realidad por norma.
Que cuando uno dice: -«Voy con la dulzura»,
De inmediato buscan a la criatura.
Que me digan loca, que en celda me encierren,
Que con siete llaves la puerta me cierren,
Que junto a la puerta pongan un lebrel,
Carcelero rudo, carcelero fiel.
Cantaré lo mismo: -«Mis manos florecen.
Rosas, rosas, rosas a mis dedos crecen».
¡Y toda mi celda tendrá la fragancia
De un inmenso ramo de rosas de Francia!
4.8k
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
On the front porch of this Colonial,
Its there I long to be, because,
It could speak to all the memories,
when the blue door was red.
Memories, those that were good and not so good.
My mom’s bleeding hearts, framed the garden entrance,
Joined by legions of Dutch Iris’ and Peonies,
The lot of them, were a happy bunch when the summer rain fell.
The sun room on the 2nd floor was my much loved space.
It was there I tried writing prose and poetry,
And in the winter, the birds would come to the frosted window,
I’d place some popcorn on the window sill and sing them a song to warm their hearts.
The two enormous Maple trees, would reach out with loving arms,
Nurturing birds, squirrels and me in 62….. the day Norma Jean died.
It was there in my room, in the early morning, you could hear the Hudson River Barge blow its horn.
It gave me such a reassurance that everything would be ok.
Thank you for the warmth you bestowed and for the spirit of Dr. Early,
Who would join our family in evening hour, when the fireplace roared.
Oct 3, 2018
Oct 3, 2018 at 4:58 PM UTC
You have abandoned purity for perfection.
Even the blind have moments of clarity
but you ***** around like the Cyclops
feeling nowhere for noman while
affecting a quiet, moronic expression.
You can't knit without needles,
but you have mislaid the point and
so things unravel into random skeins.
Your typewriter rattles only in reverse.
Bards stub their toes and wail.
You hear them, but pay no attention.
You are listening for the atomic thunderclap.
Nothing less than finale of final will do.
When it explodes at last you will know
the inarticulate, unspeakable name of god.
Perhaps Fred. Perhaps Norma or Justine.
Perhaps merely a very loud Boom...
That will be more than enough for one life.
Feb 11, 2017
Feb 11, 2017 at 8:59 AM UTC
Look
men made a habit
out of wanting her
see
men like blondes
men like curves
men like ***
some men
want it all
because I guess all men
want to date
actresses
Norma Jean
little girl
never had a home
passed around like nothing
never had a home
and was passed door to door
abandoned
because her mother
lost her marbles
a girl
who was only wanted by men
since childhood
Norma Jean
she heard
a chorus of lies
every time someone
called her name
and she was not good enough
so she dyed her hair
not good enough
so she changed her name
not good enough
so she became an object
and when she could act no more
when she looked into the mirror
and couldn't see herself looking back
it was
not good enough
Marilyn
a star
with the most useful tool
looks
but couldn't focus the little things
so three men left
instead she focused on the audiences clapping
focused on the people loving her
focused on the men in the front row whispering
Marilyn
as they let her beauty
invade their souls
like a main street ballyhoo
playing praise to her
not knowing
each note was bittersweet
making her feel elated
and crushed
crushed beneath the chains
holding her too strongly to her past
behind every compliment
she felt his wandering hands
the hands of a man
an orphan was supposed to call
father
or the hands of a boy
the boy she was supposed to call brother
because her whole life she was only wanted for one thing
and the men in the crowds only echoed
what she had known all along
that she was
not good enough
so she dyed her hair
not good enough
so she changed her name
not good enough
so she became their object
not good enough
so they mocked the woman
who only aimed to please
calling out to her
holding her up
not knowing she would
fall
see
the depressed have an intimacy with death
it’s there in their dreams
but sticks around for their nightmares
and the fans turned to one another
trying to determine
the distance between joy and sorrow
not realizing that depression
can push the distance
making the tallest mountains
look like ant hills
creating decrescendos so soft
they fade out of existence
and for a moment
it felt like the entire universe
had begun to cry
distance must be an illusion
the woman can’t be
dead
Marilyn
her life taken
transforming the way people think
about emotions
and for an instant
it was like sadness
was a tangible thing
like you could reach out
and feel it
like for the first time
you could see happiness and sadness tango
in a dance so slow and delicate
that we finally understood
the history was so important
to know the woman
all we ever had to do was
look.
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 10:06 AM UTC
"Who am I, mother?
Who am I and what do I do?"
–Norman to his mother Norma, "Bates Motel"
And so it goes, a split self - the protagonist defending the darkness as
Bizarre murders satisfy obsessions of a mothers love, taking a
Chefs knife, stabbing victims to death.
Dualistic wars within, a helpless man whose mother taught him of the
"Evils of women," instilling her own moralities of their wickedness.
Fostering the antagonistic personality of his mother
Giving to his incomplete soul a sense of wholeness.
Hidden behind the boy next door innocence, a terrified man
Incarcerated; locked & bolted
Juddering with fear - promising to adhere - set free said to be "cured."
Kleptomania returns; unearthing bodies from their graves, stealing skulls; a comforting souvenir, as
Loving anyone meant destroying them also.
Multiple personalities dominate him
Norman Bates becomes Norma; his mothers persona, crawling into her skin
Originating from their very kiss, kick starting a timeless love affair
Paraphernalia of skins tanned, butchered conquests -keepsakes turned to art & now protecting an un
Quiet mind
Reasons pertaining to mental insanity
Sectioned to institutions
Taxidermy as a young boy fascinated his mind
Urges to **** & fill, feeding euphoric highs, & even
Vertigo.
Women thrilled him; their smell lingered on each garment he kept.
Xenos to himself; who, am I mother?
Youth denied, cried away
Zenith ended; his final resting place behind the bars of Mendona Mental Health Institution, 1984.
© Sia Jane
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 8:21 AM UTC
She was a child wild
wearing a white dress,
galloping through fields of unrest,
inspiring anxious warheads,
for a hot second.
Off to the next.
She was
anxious like a feather
caught in a breeze,
far from that child
that minded none
the weeds.
Backhand compliments
more potent than
misogynic critiques.
She was Marilyn Monroe.
Where was Norma Jean?
Living in a man's dream,
pinned up in a
concrete bunker,
a porcelain poster
tearing each time
she wasn't taken seriously,
or spent nights
alone aside a dusty phone,
with no home but
Norma Jean,
Marilyn's martyr
long at peace.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 6:42 PM UTC
I believe in myths.
Every naturel blonde was first someone else. By that I mean, she was known as Norma Jean, maybe Katy, in high school (see reincarnation below).
My teenage glory days, when I was the king of cool,
will revisit when I am 75 years old, the man-in-demand (wink), wearing his lucky wide cord corduroys and letting my man-bun,
all the way down, at the prom in the senior citizen home, getting lucky, say once a month...
God, yup, after all, ***** cometh to me regular-like,
when he needs a poet~father to take his confession,
and pays me most excellently for refusing him forgiveness,
with the most excellent poem suggestions or lesser valuable things.
Love at first sight, of course, happens to me all the time,
twenty, thirty times when I am walking home. I tell ya, it's exhausting, the stress of living in the big city
Not only will I win the lottery someday,
will take down both, Powerball and MegaMillions,
in the very same week the odds for which
there ain't enough zeroes in HP's servers. (See God, above).
Reincarnation. One time they Hale(d) and then hanged me (my "namesake") and I said: " I only regret, that I have but one life to lose for my country." Well, the selfies all show oh-boy-o-boy, was I ever grinning and winking.
Only boys are bullies, girls get off easy, by getting called
just mean.
One day my city's teams will win the World Series, the Stanley Cup, the NBA Finals and the Superbowl all in the same year but only after I die and me, well, only after they will have buried me in Wyoming or France, just for spite, and nobody will hear me screaming.
My children will speak fondly of me even after they find out I died broke, well maybe not fondly, but they will most definitely call out my name, regularly.
After my demise, all the typoes in my poems will magically disappear.
All these good things will come to fruition, because I am a believer, and walked the humble path. The autopsy will also show that my tongue was permanently stuck to my cheek.
Sep 22, 2017
Sep 22, 2017 at 3:32 PM UTC
Edgar Allen settled evenings in the room at the rear
at a desk by the window where he could hear
breeze-rustled sycamore leaves sleeping
behind the neighbor’s house next door
through night’s florescent blue moon light,
its mist through low leaden clouds
he imagined the phantom he named Lenore,
and remembered lost Annabelle Lee
amore he'd left laid alone aside a blackened sea
hers, the voice of a tree speaking, hushed,
like distant waves rushed upon shore,
faintly whispering heart-secrets
the ardent couldn’t keep evermore
was it she who sighed with love’s breathless lips
to flicker the flame of a tortured oil lamp’s light
the words born laboring children
with pen put in service to cover past rent,
refill an empty flask of verdant absinthe
for a nine-dollar-half-column poem -
fodder for fickle romantics to tear over
before a performance of Bellini’s new Norma
hardened, our modern hearts
fattened on diets of swollen bellies
that belie the dour misery of starving
they’ve grown sclerotic and cynical,
hungry for suffering flavored substantial -
a greasy disaster to stain the paper wrapper
enclosing depths of the human condition
sophisticates, we dismissed puerile appetite
for honeyed songs of longing,
the ornamented confections of jealous angels
old drunken poets sang
until dark full comes, alone, and we’re small again
then shadows still speak to starry skies
and fairy tales may come alive
to suspend belief with secret dreams
of the dear, lost Annabelle Lee
Mar 13, 2011
Mar 13, 2011 at 12:59 PM UTC
this ain't no art, man,
this is just a careless whisper
this is just George Michael
singing in your stereo
this is just your bourgeois-blues
this is merely a bewilderment
this is not the art, you know it,
you ******
you ****
you chronic masturbator
you who dare to write on the internet
dancing with yo papa' shoes
and in yo mama' lingerie
ah, look at yourself, a human miracle
Angel of a foreign Harlem,
you who wasted all away,
speaking in foreign tongues
inside the thighs of a british stripper,
you idiot
you *****
and when i'm done i'll come for you,
like a ****
like a dog
sniffin' and slidin' in your park
in your ***** trailer park
there with your fat-fuck-husband
stalkin' yo every move
you *****
you ****
and when i'm done i'll look for you,
simple as that
simple as an Einstein formula
served to you on exotic dishes
by Norma from Twin Peaks,
cars for the missus and furs for the mistress
and when you'll die you'll ****
between all your champagne wishes
and it'll be ******* ridiculous.
But that's life, babe.
Get down on thursday,
drains you in May.
You *****
so be-my-babe
i say be-my-babe
in black and white
like the Ramones
or the Ronettes or
the Rolling Stone
- i still want to know
how your insides look like,
- i still want to save
your capitalist nature
in my mother's fridge,
- i still want to fly
high on a jet plane with you,
alone,
with or without needs,
crashing on our bridge.
I love you-
love me!
I put my gun in your hands.
I push it. I shovel it.
My bones are broken
bound by all the words
i never dared to say
- and here, my love, right here,
i put IT in my mouth,
i feel the cold steel in my tongue,
-- how much blood from
such a tiny hole, Lizaveta!--
and this, and so much more.
but please, i say please,
would you feed me?
would you need me?
i'm a little angel drowning in candies
who's eating his heart out and ******** his candy
ah, would you say this? Would you?
Just because it ain't cool?
Well if i'm not cool i'll drive my kite all night
and take my lunchbox and
shoot Panama down and
shoot Mexico down and
shoot a *** smoker down
and shoot a crack dealer down
and shoot a beer dealer down and
shoot Mexico down
shoot Osaka down
Kabrula kaysay Brula Amal
amala senda Kumahn Brendhaa!
Kabrula kaysay Brula Amal
amala senda Kumahn Brendhaa!
my love will gun down all your school
Look at me - i say, look at me!
*Kabrula kaysay Brula Amal
amala senda Kumahn Brendhaa!
Kabrula kaysay Brula Amal
amala senda Kumahn Brendhaa!*
and don't you forget to say my name,
as i'll
****
YOUR
SKULL
Oct 22, 2015
Oct 22, 2015 at 11:34 AM UTC
No, my mother atheist said,
Long live cricket, God is dead,
Debbie Downer's Nihilist thoughts,
Total negativity she taught,
This is Debbie Downer's doormat daughter,
Saturday sportsmen off to slaughter,
Yes, God is dead,
Long live extreme sports,
That's what Negative Norma said.
Oct 16, 2015
Oct 16, 2015 at 9:59 PM UTC
And now my friends a time has come, a time has come to die.
Like Summer leaves who's day must end, and fill the winter sky.
My Aunt is on her deathbed and her time is almost near,
oh Norma, my sweet Norma, let me whisper in your ear.
I remember Summer Sundays so many years ago,
my cousins Dave and Sammy with their fishin' poles in tow
we'd catch the evening dinner and a bottle fly or two.
Do you remember sweet Aunt Norma? Oh I hope you do.
And you'd toiled in the kitchen till you rang the dinner bell.
And barefoot Ginger would tell us to come in from the dell.
Hot biscuits, beans and apple sauce and catfish from the lake,
I would help crank the ice cream to go on the chocolate cake.
Only the fondest memories of you will I hold dear.
Oh Norma, my sweet Aunt Norma, your time is very near.
For my Aunt Norma
May 5, 2013
May 5, 2013 at 2:06 PM UTC
Most men would love a virtuous woman like Lois Lane.
Then many would love a Selena Kyle type.
Many women would love for their man to be a Superman.
Then some loves the mysterious type like the Batman.
You know, what you want?
You know, what you like?
Many men wants a model style tight.
Many women wants a physical built type.
Many men wants a woman to show off.
Many women wants the same in a man.
Then many will accept love in the place of them.
We know, what we want?
We know, what we like?
We can deny it.
Except, our words and action shows.
Many men would love to be Hugh Hefner.
Surrounded by women in their own mansion.
Many women would love to be Marilyn Monroe.
A *** symbol of many men dreams.
Even if she once was called Norma Jean.
Fantasies and dreams that moves within us.
Even if it's during the making of love.
We know, what we do?
And, who we want to do it too?
Fantasies and dreams, within our minds.
Keeping us smiling.
Until we wake up.
Mar 4, 2013
Mar 4, 2013 at 9:31 AM UTC
The papers said she was a small-town girl
from Massachusetts, an aspiring actress with
the looks of Hedy Lamarr or Norma Shearer.
The boys, they liked her minced walk,
those black curls and tight black dresses,
But it was the smile that won you:
An aphrodisiac painted deep red.
The picture didn’t do her justice.
I examined her body on a cold slab on metal:
Black curls, upstairs and down, matted with
Dirt and blood. Body, cut clean in half.
I bent over to get a look at those eyes:
Death hadn’t yet stolen their blue.
Folks say she didn’t care for school, but studied
Movies religiously. She was determined
to be known by the world—one day,
With bags and ambitions, she fled
To California. Reporters called her a vagabond amongst
Other Lost Angels; no permanent address,
though her mother received letters every week.
When the cops brought her in to identify the body,
I pardoned the girl’s condition; I had not yet
Stitched up the sides of her mouth.
I hear the leeches got to the daughter first,
Calling up the poor mother
With some cockamamie story that her
Little Betty had won a beauty contest.
The mother answered their questions proudly,
Never the wiser, never know she was
Ghostwriting her own daughter’s obituary.
Betty’s pretty picture was soon plastered across
Headlines and the evening news:
I could still hear the mother’s shrill screams
From a few hours before. I had kept the girl’s
Severed body draped, to give her
Some dignity, but I couldn’t hide
her Glasgow smile.
Jul 14, 2010
Jul 14, 2010 at 6:32 PM UTC
1907 in Louisiana,
Once lived a women in fear.
Spending her days, in a haze,
The inevitable creeping near.
Now Norma L. Kein was a cocky lass,
Taught that by her mother,
Who died when she was five,
And now resides above her.
With a head of steel and a heart of coal,
Norma had few friends.
Pushing them away at every chance,
While winding through life's bends.
She seemed to be waiting,
For the day that change would come.
Yet she just sat idly by,
Twiddling her thumbs.
Of all the people Norma knew,
She and her mother were closest.
Although she died when Norma was five,
She can still smell her mother's roses.
"Norma!" her mother would scream,
Telling her to play kinder.
"The other boys and girls don't like that."
As they all talked trash behind her.
Being held hostage,
A hostage of her own mind.
Norma begins to wonder,
If it she will find.
Searching for forever,
It's all just out of reach.
Friendship, love, and laughter,
Like a bruising to a peach.
Tragic, woeful sorrows,
Drifting all about her head.
Feeling so rejected,
She weeps inside her bed.
Darkness and the demons,
Creeping in all around.
There is no use fighting,
It is she that they have found.
Oct 29, 2011
Oct 29, 2011 at 10:32 PM UTC
Norma Jean
She had heart
She got peroxide in a bottle
Now she got secrets
There's a dead Hollywood party and you're invited
Make sure to wear the red satin
We'll dance atop cars under ambiguous lights
We'll practice asphyxiation, **********
We'll barter dimples and dime-holes
With a chalice in each hand
As we listen to the blue-breasted robin
And the candy-colored clown
And through the foggy mist
We'll be the first to witness
The churn and burn of the star factories
Nov 19, 2011
Nov 19, 2011 at 7:24 PM UTC
The story of Marilyn Monroe is like a fairytale of sorts
She was a simple and shy sweetheart who one day let her beauty for the world to show
Everyone knew her name, her glamour and fame, the glitter and lights in her name
But no one knew the real Marilyn, her private inner life plagued with tragedy, demons, and strife
A mentally broken mother, distant and sometimes unfaithful lovers, and personal demons that plagued her in the dark
Marilyn Monroe herself was just an illusion, a well crafted mask; An alter ego to shelter and protect the sensitive and quiet Norma Jean
From a shy sweet girl to a vivacious and sultry *** goddess
Marilyn Monroe is a lot like you and me
She was a starlet beauty who was realistic and relatable
Tragically, she died and left the world; her name and life still a mystery to this day
Here's a story of a little girl who dreamed to conquer the world
Norma Jean aka Marilyn Monroe
Jan 22, 2017
Jan 22, 2017 at 7:36 PM UTC
Norma McCorvey has died today
In assisted living in a Texas town.
She was Jane Roe in Seventy Three
when the court struck all restrictions down.
She was used by lawyers for their cause
Used by men and women both.
Once a Lesbian then a Christian
Her fame the thing she hated most.
The times have changed and many have died
Because of what that court decided.
Her child still lives; she was adopted.
Its Sad how we have become hard hearted;
Divided we are, now as then.
We never met, nor were we friends;
Goodbye Norma (Jane) McCorvey
May you rest in Peace at journey’s end.
Feb 18, 2017
Feb 18, 2017 at 3:58 PM UTC
you were so beautiful, and miserable.
powerful, and vulnerable. remarkable, incredible.
you will be remembered for ages as the
gorgeous blonde with stars in her eyes,
a voice so soft and sweet when she verbalized,
the woman who seemed to ooze with confidence
and beauty, with everything she would do or say,
the woman that everyone wanted to be in the 60s, and still
do to this very day.
you wrote beautiful poetry,
you were so much more than what the eye could see
or the dumb blondes you played in movies, or on tv,
or the minds of small minded people.
you're a timeless beauty,
you're an inspiration to me.
without a doubt,
you were beautiful,and remarkable
inside and out.
Dec 20, 2014
Dec 20, 2014 at 8:55 PM UTC
It's like Babylon in here
Music.
Pictures on canvas.
The girl to my left looks like Norma Jean.
Rose petals on the concrete floor.
Painted women dancing painted on the wall.
The rhythmic music softly drowns it all out...
(c) 2008 CJG
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 11:37 PM UTC
Her body was her success
but, her intellect was just a guest
that came along to the photo shoot.
Undressed, she was perfect,
alone she was fragile,
a child looking for love.
Her effects were legendary.
Many have tried to capture her
essence, they've failed
Marilyn Monroe
a fake name for a real
person.
Norma Jean Baker
Brunette to Blonde
As her two personas intersect
it's hard not to feel regret
for the child with a smile
so wide, it reflected the sun.
We , the adoring fans made her public property
forgetting her individuality, sensitivity and
vulnerability.
We used and abused the sunshine
she brought, she lived a lie
We that supposedly were in love with her
killed her beauty, without and within.
Nembutal, overdose, suicide,cover up
believe what you want.
What's true is she had a
luminous quality, wistfulness, radiance, and yearning
that set her apart.
And, in her own words
"Give a girl the right shoes,
and she can conquer the world"
That she did, and still does.
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 6:02 PM UTC
"it'll be quick, just count to three."
i sit drenched in nostalgia,
(also known as "Polo Blue")
afloat in thoughts.
and you told me not to panic
because if you panic,
you drown.
"one."
most days i'd sit on the roof wanting to scream,
and sometimes i'd want to jump off.
but i did neither because i knew you wouldn't come rushing
to kiss all that was hurt.
(like that one time i scabbed my knee at aunt norma's, do you remember?)
so instead i sat there wishing to see you hang
the christmas lights like you did
every year, the day after thanksgiving.
"two."
i'd be tempted by your ties still
hanging in your closet that still smell like you.
but i knew you'd tell me to quit playing with them,
(like when i was five, do you remember that?)
because you'd need them for work the next day.
so i left them alone hoping to be able to
watch you tie your tie once more and
actually learn to tie one myself.
"three."
i'd throw myself into the pool,
hoping the rules of buoyancy wouldn't apply.
but i keep floating above, just like you said i would.
(remember me being so scared to do that?)
i don't even panic anymore.
you taught me well,
but not well enough.
because it isn't panic that is drowning me.
it's the sea of thoughts that are
sinking me slowly, but surely.
i've counted to three and it's not quick enough.
so i continue to recount because
what you always said was true.
and i hope what you say is true,
because i keep hoping to hear you say,
"it'll be quick, just count to three."
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 12:05 AM UTC
When Marilyn said
to Norma Jean:
"You have to go
out of your way
to save me",
she spoke
from a place beyond
all those years.
As cars rolled by,
the shut window's
distant mirror-eye,
they saw themselves,
in flashes, move about,
like faces
of sorrow and joy
changing places.
And the motel-sign said: vacant.
Dec 24, 2010
Dec 24, 2010 at 12:10 AM UTC
The story of Marilyn Monroe is like a fairytale of sorts
She was a simple and shy sweetheart who one day let her beauty for the world to show
Everyone knew her name, her glamour and fame, the glitter and lights in her name
But no one knew the real Marilyn, her private inner life
Plagued with tragedy, demons, and strife
A mentally broken mother, distant and sometimes unfaithful lovers, and personal demons that plagued her in the dark
Marilyn Monroe herself was just a mask; an alterego to shelter and protect the sensitive and quiet little Norma Jean
From a shy sweet girl to a vivacious and sultry *** goddess
Marilyn Monroe is a lot like you and me
She was a starlet beauty who was realistic and relatable
Tragically, she died and left the world; her name and life still a mystery to this day
Here's a story of a little girl who dreamed to conquer the world
Norma Jean aka Marilyn Monroe
Jun 26, 2017
Jun 26, 2017 at 1:34 PM UTC