Poem #65
Marilyn is dead,
The updraft just a whisper lashing tissue eyelids,
Heels rapt and cast out
Those starshapes now turned on heels to smudgy dizziness,
Just as heatless strips
Plant bright as Vegas ground in bedsheets, still cherry plump
And forever we
Expected neat as negatives absolved the camera,
Its shutter enough
Of your laughing to ring in obituary
And the breath of life
Clichéd out of motion capture, whatever that may be
Between us - still life
Vespers of sockets turning quick papier-mâché
In the long rains left
Where cities stood beneath the temples and golden fell,
Now realising
On sepulchre their weepy monoliths, bent at the knee
Where Marilyn steeps
On steps, slumped on stones like rosary or rock salt or
Or anything but earth,
Where Marilyn is dead and the dead walk as the living.
- Malb 15/08/2011 18:16
