MONROE’S CREMATION

I am in tune.

Pain
feels like steps down a stairway in my heart
where Monroe’s tears smudge her last mascara.
Her virgin lips shinea defeated smile
as the plastic red melts
like afternoon skin.
Down my heart’s stairway, she storms out
out of glory, out of the silk-painted cotton dress
that cracks with every stretch.
Oh, her nude Golden self
battered like mute drums
played during Hindu widows’ live cremation.
Mute, so no one heard their real cries.
Back in the days.

pain
feels like the silence that lingered on
at the tail of Monroe’s ultimate scream,

the silence that never found the death of a sound,
to begin.

 

To find the jar where shielded echoes swordfight
to find their origin

 

I am in tune indeed,
‘Cos pain feels no deeper than solitude’s sigh
sieving off life
at the sight of inevitable end.

 

Monroe looks up,
panting at the apex of my heart
her Johnson-baby face
forgetting everything for a second, in hope.

Did Bobby just call?

Pain feels like Monroe’s live cremation
through festive mute drums.

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