Oh Pretty One
All join now in lament for the death of my cock
j. Morrison
Oh Pretty One
When she was alive, she was cold like one dead
Now she is room temperature, or heated by some other.
She is a blowup-doll reborn
Bloodless and bored with regrets inanimate
Once she was an actress like Marilyn, but in polar black
Nights too many, in indulgence like material eaters orgasmic
Constant and unsweet in cool copulatory carelessness
now, with that softness
And those amber glass eyes
Glaring empty in opacity like two marbles lost
In what once was flesh and beauty exquisite and admired,
An indecent Madonna to whorish hordes like jollywood millions
iconoclasticians holding no faith in virtue.
They don’t see her now
Or hear the beautiful absence of her quick intakes of breath
As his or his breath heats her neck fog on plastic and shiny
In this steamed release, she takes the pounding of his muscle
Without waking thoughts, and without the pressure of waking
Till’ tossed aside always wishing for some other
Or passed like the cheap and tawdry heirloom
Of the loneliest family.
A decoration,
Dressed up pretty.
To be fucked by, or propped up against
Any and all that would hold her
Now, in her new life unlived and as eternal as Chinese hard plastic
She lacks movement and the warmth of a woman
Displaying only preternaturally perfect breasts
Tight against cheap French lace,
The low culmination of her charms to be abused.
And her blonde ringlets were stained red like fall maples burnt
After her twenty-four story fall, skull cracked and broken
Because she was so high and careless
Now in this body so used, so careless
the blonde ringlets written from her scalp suggest tragedy,
as the only physical testament of her life neglected,
a memory fallen, limp with regrets inanimate.
-Shawn Conner of San Francisco, CA. 10-22-2005
j. Morrison
Oh Pretty One
When she was alive, she was cold like one dead
Now she is room temperature, or heated by some other.
She is a blowup-doll reborn
Bloodless and bored with regrets inanimate
Once she was an actress like Marilyn, but in polar black
Nights too many, in indulgence like material eaters orgasmic
Constant and unsweet in cool copulatory carelessness
now, with that softness
And those amber glass eyes
Glaring empty in opacity like two marbles lost
In what once was flesh and beauty exquisite and admired,
An indecent Madonna to whorish hordes like jollywood millions
iconoclasticians holding no faith in virtue.
They don’t see her now
Or hear the beautiful absence of her quick intakes of breath
As his or his breath heats her neck fog on plastic and shiny
In this steamed release, she takes the pounding of his muscle
Without waking thoughts, and without the pressure of waking
Till’ tossed aside always wishing for some other
Or passed like the cheap and tawdry heirloom
Of the loneliest family.
A decoration,
Dressed up pretty.
To be fucked by, or propped up against
Any and all that would hold her
Now, in her new life unlived and as eternal as Chinese hard plastic
She lacks movement and the warmth of a woman
Displaying only preternaturally perfect breasts
Tight against cheap French lace,
The low culmination of her charms to be abused.
And her blonde ringlets were stained red like fall maples burnt
After her twenty-four story fall, skull cracked and broken
Because she was so high and careless
Now in this body so used, so careless
the blonde ringlets written from her scalp suggest tragedy,
as the only physical testament of her life neglected,
a memory fallen, limp with regrets inanimate.
-Shawn Conner of San Francisco, CA. 10-22-2005
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