FOR JAMES AND MARILYN

Friday, July 31, 2009/Saturday, August 1, 2009

FOR JAMES AND MARILYN

By Philip Cairns

Copyright 2009 by Philip Cairns

Don’t write about any Sixties movie stars.

People are complaining.

They’ve heard enough about that blonde who killed herself.

Don’t write about her, ever again.

Well, I couldn’t give a fuck about Madonna or Britney Spears.

Kim Novak, to me, is the epitome of feminine beauty.

The Sixties was a tumultuous decade.

No one over 35 needs to be told that.

The sex goddesses were the best, back then.

I don’t want to fuck them, mind you.

Lend me their gowns and jewels and furs.

I’ll put then on, plus a long blonde wig.

I’ll tromp on the red carpet.

Don’t want anyone to throw rotten tomatoes at me.

Wanna have some fun.

Make lots of money.

Be slim and gorgeous.

Have many sexy lovers.

I want what I want.

Just happy to have a roof over my head.

After all, so many of my people died in the Nineties.

I’m here, right now.

But I’m never, ever gonna write about that zoftig blonde, ever again.

The one who died at 36.

What was her name, again?

See, I’ve forgotten it, already.

Don’t remember any of her movies

Even though I’ve seen almost all of them.

He warned you.

You’re starting to write about her and you promised not to.

Try to pen a poem about flowers or something.

Petunias don’t grab me.

I want to write about sex.

Don’t you dare.

There are nice people in the audience.

Nice people don’t have sex except to make babies.

Good people never THINK about sex.

It’s only horny queer perverts, like me, who fantasize about copulation

And all those filthy things, like fellatio.

Stop that!

You’ll get a slap.

I’d rather you wrote about that movie star than rude, vile, filthy things.

Go out and look at the sunset.

It’s free and pretty.

Maybe you’ll get a Canada Council grant

If you write about the colours in a sunset.

No sex and no Marilyn.

Oh, no! You said it.

You wrote about her.

Shame on you.

Write about the sunset.

Do it right now.

Okay, shut up.

I promise I’ll never write about her, ever, ever, EVER, again.

And I mean it.

All right?

The colours in the sky at 9 pm are heavenly

On this glorious summer night.

And my heart went thump, thump, thump.

Are you happy, now?

CANNES DREAMS

Friday, July 24, 2009

CANNES DREAMS

By Philip Cairns

Copyright 2009 by Philip Cairns

The actor is dying a slow, sombre death.

Is it time to retire when joy is no longer there?

I still long to stroll along La Croisette at Cannes, again,

But, this time, to walk the red carpet in my finery.

Diamond studs in my ears.

A huge wad of money in my pocket.

The paparazzi foaming at the mouth.

Winning Best Actor at the awards ceremony on the closing night.

Smoking a joint with Jack Nicholson on his rented yacht in the harbour.

Drinking champagne with Meryl Streep in her suite at the Carlton Hotel.

Where is the kind, sexy lover I thought I would find?

The house by the sea with acres of rolling hills

And a swimming pool in the backyard?

I was really only looking for mass love

To make up for all the childhood jeers.

Life turned out so different than I planned.

Foolish, unrealistic dreams replaced by living nightmares

And boring jobs.

People can be so difficult to get along with

Or am I to blame?

No need for you to shed tears for me.

I’d hate to come back as a child soldier

Or a maimed, starving baby in Darfur.

In India, parents cut off their children’s fingers

And gouge out their eyes.

It brings in more money from begging.

Forever trolling for sex in strange places.

Unlit forests and bathhouse corridors.

My gut getting bigger as each year passes.

Sinking into a snake pit of shrieking cannibals and rude retorts.

Let the oxygenated blood flow.

This planet is full of beauty and horror,

In equal measure.

The Scales of Justice tip over and come crashing to the ground.

There are no survivors.

I want to climb into an alternate reality

Where everything is bright and perfect

And soiled events don’t crush my ugly enthusiasm.

I miss the fireworks at Cannes,

Our car parked so far away from the Palais.

Watching classic foreign films,

With no subtitles, on the beach,

Sitting jetlagged in a deck-chair in the sand,

With stars in my eyes and unbridled hope twisting around in my full belly.

The butterfly is emerging from the cocoon.

No one has shown him how to fly.

I wish I could relive the Buddhist doctrine.

These frustrated desires are killing me.

Steam rises from my body after every sexual encounter

But only in my dreams.

All I want is to live life to the fullest

With every moment wrapped in mauve velvet paper.

Imaginary rubies dripping from my delicate fingers.

Wagner to greet me, in person, at the gates of Heaven.

(Though, of course, they don’t really exist.)

Salvador Dali to paint a birthday card for me

With Liza Minnelli jumping out of the cake.

I bought all those silly lies in movie magazines

And on the boob tube.

The Mediterranean air made me feel invigorated and whole.

Who knows what the future holds?

Forget the blackness from the past.

There is so much to be thankful for.

Every breath can’t be orgasmic, unfortunately.

LOST AND FOUND

Thursday, July 16/Friday, July 24, 2009

LOST AND FOUND

By Philip Cairns

Copyright 2009 by Philip Cairns

I found out the hard way

That endings can be amorphous,

Or sad or angry.

Sometimes confusing.

The phone just stops ringing

Though his scent lingers in the mind.

Marilyn’s demise still shines in the Collective Unconscious.

We are all doomed and lost,

Though we’re rarely aware of this fact.

Love puffs us up.

The trap door opens as we swing on the gallows.

Music eases the pain.

There is nothing we can do but live

Until Death comes to visit.

The house of cards collapses but no one seems to care.

Memories can change and taint the past,

Like fire burning a genius’s manuscript.

Sal Mineo died for your sins.

I never got a chance to kiss him

For we simply never met.

We all have bitter regrets.

Lost dreams.

Jewellery cases full of emeralds and silver.

Saved love notes wrapped in pink ribbon.

Gasping fantasies of wild, luscious sex.

A hazy sunrise through the kitchen window.

The night creeps up on you and steals your soul.

Aaron Copland’s “Quiet City” kisses my eardrums.

A shard of green glass penetrates my bowels.

Forget about sex and romance.

It’s too tragic to think about

But so much fun to do.

The aging transvestite fell down the filthy manhole

And broke both her legs.

She left her glasses at home.

No one spoke to her at the crowded club.

Her nylons were torn and her make-up was caked-on and smeared.

Myrtle thought she resembled Elizabeth Taylor

But she looked more like the Wicked Witch of the West.

Please surround me with love.

No criticisms or angry demands.

My hair is full of dust.

Lucky spiders crawl across my walls.

I greet them with kind words and a smile.

Faded celebrities are dying almost every day.

There’s a variety show happening in the sky.

I want to drown in talent.

Not boring TV and stale pre-packaged food.

The faint voices I hear in my head are soft and soothing,

Damning and delightful.

This path has called to me for countless years.

I wish I had more answers to get me through the days.

Life is a tall, thick, ageless Oak tree standing confidently on its own.

The hunger pangs never really go away.

I’m almost tired of it all.

DON'T DROP THE BOMB

Tuesday, July 21/Thursday, July 23, 2009

DON’T DROP THE BOMB

By Philip Cairns

Copyright 2009 by Philip Cairns

Into this slate-coloured pit,

I dip my dry, cracked toes.

I am morphing into someone else.

The journey is painful but awe-inspiring.

I miss the stage and the camera.

Discovering a new character.

Making new friends.

Falling into that other fascinating dimension.

I’m fearful of the words that spurt out of my right hand.

Where will this pilgrimage end?

Out of the left hand flows the true picture.

I sit beside the lake, in the dark,

Drinking in the warm summer air.

Feeling so alive.

The Beast has left me,

At least for the time being.

I get up and stretch my long legs.

The boardwalk clunks under my feet.

Nothing is ever enough.

Always wanting more and more.

No longer moaning about being alone.

Just enjoying the small, golden moments.

Each second may be my last.

Try to live a Buddha-like existence.

Breath to breath,

Moment to moment.

Smell the sounds of the ecstatic.

Taste the colours of love,

In all its silver forms.

The stones speak to me.

Amethyst opens my soul.

Kiss the silence.

Suppress the constant aching desires,

Like a beast that can never be fed enough.

Let me climb to the top of the mountain

To drink the fresh, clean air.

Help me to discover truths.

Books, movies, friends,

Intellectual nourishment.

Wet sex and hot food.

Comfort me.

Look up at the full moon.

Think and wonder.

Hide from evil.

Just concentrate on the good, kind people on the planet,

Hiding under sharp rocks and in dark, makeshift caves.

Eradicate sadness and despair.

Heal all the broken limbs.

Life should be joyous and fresh.

A blazing ochre sunset.

The Goddess wants us to be happy.

Touch me in all the right places.

Send Reiki to swab my cuts and bruises.

Jump high into the quiet music of silence.

Exhale a perfect hue.

Poisons spew out of my pours and I feel cleansed.

Now, inhale everything.

As much as you can understand.

Will there ever be enough?

When will all the sorrow end?

BLACK RAPIDS

Monday July 20, 2009

BLACK RAPIDS

By Philip Cairns

Copyright 2009 by Philip Cairns

I’m being sucked deep into the desolate, black abyss.

There are no colours or music.

Crisp burnt grass, as far as the eye can see.

My emotions rage out of control, like a bright red forest fire.

This void can be comforting and compulsive.

Grey thieves have stolen something

But I don’t know what.

My heart ceases to pump yet I’m still alive.

Is everything else dead?

Something is missing.

I can’t put my finger on it.

Can’t think.

The Black Dog is chewing away at my vitals.

The CD player has been playing the same damned note for 8 hours.

Food tastes like fuchsia sawdust.

Friends have deserted me or disappeared.

Please, someone, sing that song I like.

Shake me to life like a newborn’s ass.

Push me out into the world through the loose folds of ashen skin.

Let me say outrageous things.

The purple sunset burnt my eyeballs.

The weight of the world sits on my crooked shoulders.

I just need to be touched.

To be heard.

To speak the truth as I see it.

To find my lost hope.

I kissed the hard, beautiful sea shell

And it crumbled into tiny grains of sand.

Sit beside me.

Worry a little about me.

I want to see violet one more time before I die.

Tell me profound, loving things.

Shock me into rapture.

Hit the tingshaw so I can enter the divine.

Blast the sounds of a heavenly choir.

Wipe away a tear.

I’m standing on the edge of something frightening and bitter.

I can taste the reality of it.

You let me see your dark corners.

All I feel is sad and empty.

Don’t punish me for that.

I need the feeling, again,

Of Anita Ekberg dancing in a luscious black gown in “La Dolce Vita”.

The blond actor with the goatee doing back-flips.

The plunk-plunk of the 60s Euro-pop guitar.

The soft strings on the soundtrack

As Anita wanders through the late night streets of Rome,

Her curly platinum blonde hair cascading into the crevices of her exposed back.

Forgive me.

This bleak pit singes my face and scars my soul.

I can’t get up.

The cold steel door has slammed shut.

These emotions are like the deadly rapids in “Deliverance”,

Gurgling and bubbling,

Gobbling up the innocent and naive.

A part of me is dying a slow, painful death.

The pointed phoenix will rise, again, I can only hope.

All those lost dreams fading away.

This shimmering mirage is a devastating, lonely place.