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?