Voice automatically recites at the loading of this page. Poem inspired by this news.
The flighty dame stood over the Brooklyn bridge contemplating a suicide note
whence came the angel of death and already biased by her golden misery
gave her a novel instead.
She could then talk about the parade of faces on her last lover’s gestures,
about the informative skies harbouring hopeless beginnings for each gestation,
she had the world of future
under her blowing skirt
just a cliché.
Marilyn curled dark impulses, her tiptoes
balancing on the threshold of a breaking news.
The silent slither,
East River, yet to rot and freeze.
Marilyn gasped an awakening
and dragged her leaden defeat back to life.
Now, fade into the automatic buzzing solitude engineering this city
with its mute traffic of lament.
Black eyes of the water blinked farewell
for the time being
the disparate stranger
whom I never cared for.
Then why do I occasionally see her come through this door
vivacious as a cork leaving a bottle of champagne
for an enormous splitting headache.
I feel the drowning of a leaf in a lake.