Before television was in technicolour,
Before VHS, the reduction of dress
And in the wake of the western women’s ambitions
That stretched further than the kitchen.
Through the millionaires, the monkeys,
The seedy neighbour downstairs, trickled
Down to black and white trash. Pin up
To the overweight and stuck in a pitied state
Of pop art and screenplay.
Behind those puckered lips breath
crept to the chest, to the heart,
Punctured, cracked, sunken and shallow.
Those come-to-bed eyes that were really
Just please-love-me cries.
The roles, the papers, the speech therapists,
Praises sung, stung with bitterness.
“Happy Birthday, Mr President,
I’m desperate and sick,
Really, just a stupid bitch,
Happy Birthday to you,
You might as well shoot. ”
Norma Jean died alone,
And left the curse of Marilyn Monroe.