M.M.

Spirit still sprawled on her bed of death,
Marilyn Monroe pens her memoirs.

A tell-all about Jack and Bobby
and what really happened the night that she died.
Old news, true, but she figures a lot of people
still want to know.

Nobody palms off the goddess of sex,
brother to brother, in that sick incestuous
sharing, without payback time finally arriving.

Too late, she realized they only wanted
the sex vamp, notches in their belts,
their face in her cleavage.
Not Norma Jean, hidden beneath the shell.

Jack grew horns whenever he came near,
groping her breasts, thrusting inside
too fast to please. But what could she do?

Oh, Mr. President, go slower.

But she’d already boarded that freight train to hell,
the Kennedy men’s favorite transport for their women.

A gypsy has promised to download her story to crystal,
blog it onto the Internet, tell the Post and the Times.

Maybe the hullabaloo will even outsell stories
about Charlie Sheen and Justin Beiber.