Marylin Monroe Poem by Joseph S. Josephides

Marylin Monroe

Rating: 4.8


I fell in love with my neighbour, Marilyn; I was unlucky,
she was caught by companies, producers, the crews
posted her naked, as appetizer for lascivious lookers,
they raised her skirt, blowing air from ground funs
she ought to laugh, undress, drink pills to endure;
they hide her in blackish limousines, in grey Studio,
in white museum inside a waxwork form. Di Maggio
secretly grasped her for wife, Miller did the same...

(In a nightmare I saw her as widow Aspasia Fokais,
myself being Darius, I saw my uncle Cyrus raping her,
then was captured by Artaxerxes, my dad; finally I got
married to her, but she became a priestess of Astarte.)

You sang for the Boss but they threw you in silence.
The camera shows lust even over your nude corpse,
you hold the pillow, as if it was the child you desired,
lean your head sideways as Madonna; a camera is not
an eye of a poet* interpreting the head’s leaning, if it’s
affection, bowing or submission to fate or hidden pain.

Mice scratch the coffins of the salesmen**; dry are
their eye lenses, as dry as lenses of their camera.
Life is a theatre without rehearsal. So let us love each
other, before the stage curtain falls with no applause.
I want you for your heart; let them worship your skirt.



Joseph S. Josephides (Iosif S. Iosifidis)


© JosephJosephides

POET'S NOTES ABOUT THE POEM
The tragic life of Marylin Monroe, symbol of sex, talks by itself.
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