lip gloss, Marilyn style

I dont know where to go
to fulfill the idea of bad verse
wandering, or maybe questioning
wondering or maybe tampering
with the natural elements
tempting rain and thunder
like a mad scientist
or an apprentice in witchcraft
which craft is for me, I ponder
as my fingers typing dumb letters
some words turn out pretty images
they tempt emotions to blossom
from the black and white stain
where ink is not yet dry, taking its time
like the tears I shed after a nightmare
where my reality confuses itself
with some nonsense I saw on the tube
         her boobs were seductive
         but they were pure silicone
         and my phantasms veered inevitably
         towards swarthy men
         risking shock for my faithful few, so...
if a mad scientist could cure invincible social ills
would I still flounce like a bearded floozy
or would I shave and dress like Marilyn
singing breathily, painted lips puckered sensuously,
"poop poop dee doo"
"Happy Birthday Mister President..."
wandering in white spiked high heels
wondering what bouncing tits feel like
questioning fellow danseuses about shades of lipstick
tampering with that which is better not to be changed
the machos are the true men
women wear the d-cup bras, and fill them nicely
and all of this drivel neednt inspire thoughts
of any unnatural caliber, and I could get back
to writing serious poetry
about the moonlit night
and the stars reflecting in her lip gloss



lip gloss, Marilyn style
1 january, 2007
[2007.1.1Éb]