for the girl at the end of the bar (losing her Norma Jean)



Sometimes, just watching people will make you think you know them. Your mind creates little scenarios in which they star. Sometimes they end sadly. Sometimes. like the night, they simply end. lmr


She is but one
from becoming
Miss Marilyn Monroe;
just one dry martini's distance
from losing her religion
& her inner
Norma Jean.
She gets jazzed on
attention & the sheen from
style-free shark-
skin suited dudes
who whisper lewd
love notes hotly into
one ear &
ply her with empty
inside the other.

No. She is not
a worthless
play thing. She is not
seeking fame.  She is
not  loose...
Or a loser and
she is not profane.
She is only looking for someone,
some purpose,
or some thing
she can not yet name.

She makes excuses.
She uses the john. &
without even trying,
she creates
slow motion sambas
with each step...

She is part Venus &
part coquette,
part hip-gyrating siren...
part sad girl in deep
Slow traces of
regret reside 
behind her
shy, come-
hither eyes...

The contents of her
low-cut black dress
flash like florescent signs of
'i want your sex!' 
   'come fix me!

     'i want your sex' 
      'please fix me! 

        'i want your sex!' 
          'someone!  anyone!
             fix me!'

  She is always one stiff Manhattan away from becoming Miss Marilyn Monroe;
always a dry martini's distance from
losing her dinner & her inner

Norma Jean.

The music plays LOUD & wild
& LOUDER & wilder.  It is arousing her
&  enlivening  her.   It is awakening
that  always-seeking-part of her,
& that sleeping-inner-showgirl,
that weeping inner tart in her,
whirls & dances the art of her
into a risque
The mindless fineness of her shaking 
behind is calling, calling, preening,
leaning out for someone's hands 
to touch her, hold her, mold &
console her. . .   rearrange
the contours of her sadly
abused spirit, dry her
tears &  erase her
fears & ply her
with more liquor.  & someone will fill her glass
with more liquid lies. . .  & shoot her all
the usual suspect lines . . .   & tell her
she is beautiful & special & tell her
you 'love her' within a
sigh inside some diffused

Until then... night is just a crap shoot & a capricious whim.
Night is just a few hot moments of bumping skin...
an interlude between her uncertainty & her
coolly desperate  laughter.  Night is this
endless stream of vodka martinis &
the tears from her gynecological
as it  pleads so fearlessly
for a  new  wet 
she is always one stiff
away from
a sloppy Marilyn Monroe...
always one dry
martini's distance
from puking up
the contents of her inner

Norma Jean.


copyright © 2016 by L.M. Ross

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