Norma Jean's Death Song

Goodbye Norma Jean.
Fame, that vampiric victory
of form over content,
has airbrushed aside your pale peroxide frame
in favour of younger fresher fleshtones.
He gave you a song, sending it to your lonely L.A. apartment,
when just a young man in the twenty-second row
of some Hackney Empire.
Now just another hockneyed Californian, he has recalled
his rhymes,
redirecting his male hormones
over the Bridge
of the Soul
to rest upon the people's princess's estate.
Those of us who do remember you,
our eyes - awash with romantic travesties -
raised in wonder at an altared nude Madonna Puttana,
cherish your image as though your essence.
Yet conspiracy covers conspiracy,
the abyss calls the abyss:
We know you could not have stomached oral barbs,
that, though punctured and bruised,
your swan-like pose was painstakingly arranged.
You believed you shared a birth sign
more with Whitman than Garland;
but your diary is gone, your phone record gone,
now even your song.
They changed your name, they gave you fame,
they made you dumb, they made you blonde,
they stole your song, now all is gone.