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The Curse of Marilyn Monroe

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.

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One thought on “The Curse of Marilyn Monroe

  1. Okay, you’ve convinced me. Of course I have my own blooming WordPress blog, which I am currently driven to worry about excessively courtesy of dire circumstance and pressure from the Employment Programme, but do salute you and wish you the greatest happiness and satisfaction in your work. Of course one loves to carp and criticise but for now, having just seen your work on Hello Poetry too, I’m content to enjoy the existence of another creative spirit. Stay cool and enjoy the journey!

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