Marlon Brando


On the camera, you were a god.

Black and white clung to your skin

like lingerie

on a model.


I hear your Daddy hated you.

I know what its like,

To come from broken pieces

of a once complete



They say that you were cruel.

A hell bat on the set,

but those dark eyes

brood on the screen

like midnight country fire.


But something went so wrong.

It worries me to think

what beauty and intrigue you held,

and how it slipped away.


I watch the dated interviews

and see a man in pain,

who hasn’t come to terms with, yet,

what it is to live.


You’re like a random ghost

with no apparent purpose,

what little you show passion for

is irrelevant at best.


You stutter and slur,

your thoughts are like pin wheels

spinning, unable to go



And your waistline expands,

Your face disappears

and obliterates the Man

who once lived.


It is almost frightening, who you became.

There is a sadness embedded within

portrayed in your movements,

so thoughtlessly crafted,

like poetry written

without a brain.


Thank god for old films

The Fugitive Kind,

Street Car, Guys and Dolls,

a million more.


Without them, I would only know

the somewhat incoherent

elderly man

who kissed Larry King

in makeup and socks.


Mavis Knightley



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