Claptrap V
Marilyn Monroe

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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.



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