MARILYN MONROE DIPTYCH
1.
The Girl and Her Shadow
I have come in (t)error
whose teeth are almost blue
wilted & radiant as a radish
w/padded shoulders & knife-edged trousers
a one who eats nothing but applause
(light source is from above & to the right)
eyes wander my anatomy
like berserk steel balls on a pinball machine
certain spots are touched with opaque white
leaving no doubt where to find
the erogenous zones
where the nipple would be (instead) a red slit
almost a smile, almost bloody
a strangely maladapted being, who
loved things that ended badly & were
monstrous
who desired murder of the normal
a clear case of exstasis in extremis
biblical as all get-out
(easy, easy there…)
I am what is called a Personality
hamstrung by convention, a trademark,
an always freshly opened tin of Campbell’s soup
I am…I’m sorry…what?
don’t say a word, darling, just smile
yes, of course, I am yours ever (truly), love, Marilyn
2.
American Idol
“In Hollywood, a girl’s virtue is worth less than her hair-do.”
— Marilyn Monroe
what of this evil? what operetta?
cue the necromatic erotic anatomy lesson
terribly blonded hair, enormously eyelashed eyes & booted
(it’s not real without some sort of artificiality
attached)
unheroic America plods like a procession of flagellants
souls blackened with visions of upholstered furies
& hormone enhanced sex
pleasured so deep they either vomit or faint
our thoughts & prayers go with you
such is deformation fortissimo & of a sameness
step right up, folks, it’s merely art!
it refers to nothing outside itself
it’s a rabbit, it’s a cat, it’s whole or broken
(p.s.: only dolls have the alabaster tits
sung about by 17th C Romantic poets)
the body (once gazed upon) its secret is out
beyond fear of mediocrity & resonant gestures
time accumulates the gummy residue of past use
Marilyn was here, public lipped, baby voiced
they turned her into a little girl & kept her
in the refrigerator
iced petal-pink for parties the Kennedy’s failed to reply
(not all men come to love fully trained or prepared)
she’s so dear & happy & pathetic
with the dead you can do what you will
& none the wiser
the doll itself arranged in a satanically
black private booth
blood streaming from a bullet wound in the eye
terror dissolves in the image — awed & in love
the old interior monologue is flogged half to death
I’m going to Hollywood, I’m going to Hollywood
I’m going to be(come) rich & famous
Stan Rogal lives and writes in Toronto. Work has appeared in numerous magazines and anthologies in Canada, the US and Europe. The author of 26 books: 7 novels, 7 story, 12 poetry and several chapbooks. MA English from York U. Had drinks in a Vancouver bar with Allen Ginsberg, once, many years ago. Allen drank orange juice.