The Room
“hey! you in the pink
slinky thing
heaving your cleavage
drop your
cock-sure
Ava gard
avant-guarde
think you’re such a gardener?”
“I’m all for haughty culture”
it only lasts a lifetime
york
is not new
fly me to a monsoon
scribble down an epitaph
not for me
for Mother
you see
I was small
mingling
tingling with sticking
Hollywoodism
wearing boots
made for
talking
leaning on the balcony as
Dean
hot–shoe shuffled through my
best suit
ruffling my demeanour
“d’you mean her?” he purred
a shadow of his former self
“she’s a bitch
they all are”
“and so are you”
said Marilyn
not moving her lips
“you’re dead gorgeous”
“you’re gorgeous dead”
the man who couldn’t stand to lie
lay down
missionary position
fame
after all
that was the only one
they listened to
then
stage creaked
rats packed and pawed
in the glow of a candle blowing in the wind.
I played the intro
then I played it again
the way
Sammy
said
not my way
their way
to be Frank
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