Channeling Marilyn Monroe

This Vanity Fair article from 2010 resurfaced recently, for me:
http://www.vanityfair.com/hollywood/features/2010/11/marilyn-monroe-201011

And it reminds me all over again how this fellow Gemini of mine, tortured soul, amazing person never got her full due while she was still on this planet.  And how she remains this mystery we sometimes wonder about.  And somehow iconic.

The VF article has wonderful photos, many of which show Marilyn reading: "If some photographers thought it was funny to pose the world's most famously voluptuous 'dumb blonde' with a book - James Joyce!  Heinrich Heine! - it wasn't a joke to her.  In these newly discovered diary entries and poems, Marilyn reveals a young woman for whom writing and poetry were lifelines, the ways and means to discover who she was and to sort through her often tumultuous emotional life.  And books were a refuge and a companion for Marilyn during her bouts of insomnia."

As someone who has struggled with sleep herself, I can understand how awful insomnia can be.

The article goes on to describe "She was having trouble sleeping, relying on barbiturates.  On Parkside House stationary, she wrote one night after Miller had gone to bed:
on the screen of pitch blackness
comes/reappears the shapes of monsters
my most steadfast companions...
and the world is sleeping
oh peace I need you - even a 
peaceful monster."

This wonderful, beautiful, and misunderstood woman once wrote this poem about her third (and final), husband Arthur Miller:
my love sleeps beside me -
in the faint light - I see his manly jaw
give way - and the mouth of his
boyhood returns
with a softness softer
its sensitiveness trembling
in stillness
his eyes must have look out
wonderously from the cave of the little
boy - when the things he did not
    understand -
he forgot

but will he look like this when he is dead
oh unbearable fact inevitable
yet sooner would I rather his love die
than/or him?~ Marilyn Monroe

I have a poem somewhat like this, or at least part of it.  I already posted it here, but in a much different context ~
http://www.yousurecantalkbaby.blogspot.com/2009/07/and-i-dont-think-war-is-noble-and-i.html

It echoes what she wrote, at least in the first paragraph or two, but then turns darker like she did too.
There are places in each other
that we can never touch.

Lying next to him
among the white sheets
and plump pillow cases
where we love,
I place one hand
on the white skin
where the shirt achingly
pulls up
and look at him, little-boy-like
deep in his afternoon of sleep
face flushed and comforted
some sweet peach vision
taking shape beneath his eyelids.

There are moments with each other
that it seems we can never overcome.

Standing next to him
among clenched fists
and crossed arms on the balcony
where we battle,
I forget the sweetness
and see only ages of combat
and strange back streets
where dark things slink
around corners,
when the gorgeous
enormous language
we use, becomes booted
and repulsive -
wiping mud on the sheets
where elegant lust
turns to a brutish club.

These particular nights
and early morning hours
when the blood runs
there's a swift blade to
separate us - it hangs
in the balance of our
angry words and we
are both just begging
to have it be done.

These two sad goats
butting heads
and bleating at the sun
are nothing like
our puppy love
our licking and sniffing
and protecting each other,
when we can lay down
at each others' feet
with a big sigh
after another long day's run.