Sometimes it is difficult to look into you For your eyes are a mirror reflecting Staring through the facade of facile charm Seeing into my ragged threadbare soul Held together with staples and sellotape An echoing chamber of other’s voices You already know that I’m ancient and weary And I fear your lofty disdain and contempt
Sometimes it is difficult to look at you For I know that you possess qualities That blaze with the intensity of a young star Nurturing vast seething potentialities Spreading a soft burnished golden light Over the warming oceans of its satellite Illuminating the deepest ravine and valley Far too fierce to be gazed upon directly
Sometimes it is difficult to look upon you For this is samsara and we are flowing Downstream towards the roaring rapids By chance we floated past each other And I felt a fleeting sensation of affinity But soon the current will change course And with each ebbtide we will drift apart Taking different tributaries to the destination
Dream that descend as waterfalls Illuminating diamond brilliance deepest night The glowing tail of a shooting star Flashes of lightning amidst menacing clouds Lamp shining in an assassin’s cave Upon awakening transparent as bubbles Illusions in the watery morning light See the endless things as a dewdrop
Your fingertips glance
Glide press down there
Glissade here yes
Definitely right there
Now your touch
Locks me up
In a prism of colour
Jade hazel verdigris
Slate azure golden
Still-point the centre
Implosion the taste
Of mouths filled
Consumed with star
Light turning inward
The horizon event
Vanilla honeyed tristesse.
The ‘Soft’ Death of Marilyn Monroe. Standing in front of him as she dressed, Karen Novotny’s body seemed as smooth and annealed as those frozen planes. Yet a displacement of time would drain away the soft interstices, leaving walls like scraped clinkers. He remembered Ernst’s ‘Robing’; Marilyn’s pitted skin, breasts of carved pumice, volcanic thighs, a face of ash. The widowed bride of Vesuvius.
J.G Ballard-You:Coma: Marilyn Monroe-The Atrocity Exhibition 1966
Marilyn Monroe’s death was another psychic cataclysm. Here was the first and greatest of the new-style film goddess, whose images, unlike those of their predecessors, were fashioned from something close to the truth, not from utter fiction. We know everything about Marilyn’s sleazy past-the modest background, the foster homes and mother with mental problems, the long struggle as a starlet on the fringes of prostitution, then spectacular success as the world embraced her flawed charm, loved by sporting idols, intellectuals and, to cap it all, the US President. But she killed herself, slamming the door in the world’s face.
A kind of banalisation of celebrity has occurred; we are now offered an instant, ready to mix fame as nutritious as packet soup. Warhol’s screen-prints show the process at work. His portraits of Marilyn Monroe and Jackie Kennedy drain the tragedy from the lives of these desperate women, while his day glow palette returns them to the innocent world of the child’s colouring book.