oh dear sylvia loved you

the hmm colored words
i sketch in stiff suits
that others can make out
as re(a)d
but not name

platinum blonde
and dead, poor marilyn
i think charred sylvia loved you
with all her head and soul
before she ez-baked her life away

what is that white-lotus now
in her rotted dress
planted in the fiery 60s?

perhaps, oooo
or ahhhh
or maybe-so, i think those colors match
the hues, the bones of her nibbled toes.

that plaid of poetry that wears most familial
enrapt in her poetry, i think dear icon
beauty marked, no pocked -- the milky skin
of your sex, was her tongues to speak

though, i do not believe she did
perhaps that suit did not fit her love
the tweed chafed, it was
later the ugh-color of
unfaithful love beguiled her tombstone
and spoke to us only after