Blame It All On Hollywood

       
     
Marilyn, she made men love her with a sickness      
a pretty little actress laying facedown by their side      
pretending to be the victim      
whilst they howled her name into the cameras.      
       
       
Cry, cry for Monroe      
and bleed tears of desire      
before you dare utter your lines      
like Brando, living his part to deliver the truth.      
       
       
So scream, scream for bloody romance      
christen the screenwriter      
to write something tragic     
and watch, watch it unfold along the boulevard      
drowning in flashlights      
curled up in some starlet’s lap, lapping up the press      
stroking pride with each breath      
purring      
deep in her sleep      
motionless      
under the spotlight     
at the bottom of a lake.      
       
       
Love is dead, blame it all on Hollywood      
for cutting out your heart      
casting flesh into the furnace      
and filling you with lead.      
       
       
Ate, convinced you the weight was true      
the purist love at any price      
a fortunes worth in tears of gold      
that glisten with venom
trickling down
the spines of alchemy.      
       
       
Legends, following dreams      
to silver screens, digging      
deep under the desert sun      
to uncover lost treasures      
and the fool’s fortune      
where silence is truth      
and true love holds trust      
something Marilyn lost long ago      
before the angels flew home.