marilyn monroe is being strangled again. we all really wish this wouldn’t happen. she sits naked on a chair constructed with steel wire paper-clips. wrapped around her rounded pink body is a morgue-shroud, which is as white as a corpse’s eyes. she clutches it to her president-kissed (bullet shot) breasts with fingers stained by nicotine and poorly applied nail varnish, as if that would save her. numbed by prescription drugs, she looks on in a distant shock as an arm comes from the corner of a hole. a hole in a wall that is spread smooth, white and silver like razorblades in cocaine. a voice in her head calls “escape escape escape”, but she can’t feel her gums and her make-up is flaking. maybe tomorrow this will go better, but today it’s her time to die. she has another appointment at 6-30 tomorrow to die again. and again the next day. probably just as well.