GHOST WALKS 31
…The inside story was stubbed by (ink smudge).
Uncompromising pains should be applied
Scuttlebutting this. Don’t rat on mission cats,
Two-timing Marilyn Monroe,
Ride-taking her away days in Mexico…
Osbert Fitzhugh on Gogmagog Hill
Gave-away a sulphurous circumstance
That goose-fleshed in re-telling.
Two hark-back knights dishevelled
In shape-vague tussles. Nose-diving,
One unloaded his charger.
In twilight it flourished, snorted, hoofing loam,
Dissolving into effervescence.
GHOST WALKS 32
…Norman Mailer penny-a-lined
In a hair-raising scandal rag:
Klan-intimate federal payrollers
Were driven to rub out Marilyn Monroe
To string out the Kennedy’s
Into a wacko slant, intrigue –
Garbling frames of ‘Communist’ double-agents…
Elbowing the necropolis at Conical Hills,
Skeletons plunk. One firm-holding another
By his eroded neck.
Our ditcher took relish for a skull.
Bowling it resident to crown the hearth.
A forbidding knocking tingled him spewy,
Charging the night till bones reinter.
GHOST WALKS 33
…Intelligence tight-reined is promptly unwrapped.
Characters in rogues’ gallery diagnosed,
Fitted-up by (black ink) in Marilyn Monroe’s bankroll.
Troublesome rollickings to Robert Kennedy –
In the offing, trumpeting their fling,
All overblown by our agents…
Tonight she runs upon beating hearts.
Phlegm-rocking outbursts, grisly, cussed,
From dog-shake pubs.
Frown on the Southery Wolf’s gnarr,
Wraithing all boorish yokels.
Maw-slashed friars paunched him.
GHOST WALKS 34
…Elbowroom in gossip rags
By smarmy transatlantic news hounds
Upper-casing Marilyn Monroe’s assassination
And the double-crosser at fault.
Winchell turned audience to Hollywood’s privileged.
Umpteen inuendoed the same…
The mere-lock at Brereton Hall is spoiled.
Something death-rattles if nocturnal boughs roll.
His blood-line haunters muster
Widdershins to shock-lack pews
In breakneck astral-fey coaches
Squinting the approach.
GHOST WALKS 35
…Trading off your solicitation,
A short-lived march-past of Marilyn Monroe’s last hours:-
The New York Mirror reiterates
That Photoplay’s ink-spill on her hit-man
All but fingers him…
Burleydam Village’s flashbacks
Are unlooked for.
A brew-bullet’s headstoned
By the doorstep
At the Combermere Hotel.
In it glowers a poltergeist.
Don’t shatter it, that frenzy’s a plague spot.
The graveolence – black nightshade – squeezes the passage.
Christopher Barnes has been published in various places, including Jacket, Poetry Scotland, and Action Yes. He lives in Newcastle, UK, and co-edits the poetry magazine Interpoetry.