Went walking out at sunset by the sea.
Norman said to Robert, "I know you're only here on loan
But the same guy who made you made me.
He made John O'Hara and he made James Jones
And Dashiell Hammett and Antonionee.
He made more writers than Brando made actors
But the last and best he made was me,
See?
The last and best he made was me."
They walked on in silence and the waves washed in
And Norman kicked along absently,
Put his hands in his pockets and thought about things
And looked about as glum as he could be.
He said, "Brando won't speak to me,
Marilyn wouldn't sleep with me,
I'm short and ugly and my thing's too small to see,
And what I want to know, what I called you here to ask you is,
Do you think he might have liked me?"
Cohn looked at him sharply and Mailer brought his guard up, said
"Well you punched him out, you should know!"
"Norman," whispered Robert, "you're confusing fact and fiction.
It was Jake with whom I came to blows."
"Yah but Papa let you beat him, he could feel you in your fists!
Do you really mean to stand there and say
That you didn't feel the victory engorge you like grace?
You fought the bull, boy! And you lived another day!"
But Cohn just whispered, "Papa don't care,
Papa don't care,
Papa don't care,
Papa don't care,"
And faded in the gloom and then was gone,
And Norman hung his head and trudged back to his room
And sat there staring at the gun.
And what I want to know, what I called you here to ask you is,
Do you think he might have liked me?"
Cohn looked at him sharply and Mailer brought his guard up, said
"Well you punched him out, you should know!"
"Norman," whispered Robert, "you're confusing fact and fiction.
It was Jake with whom I came to blows."
"Yah but Papa let you beat him, he could feel you in your fists!
Do you really mean to stand there and say
That you didn't feel the victory engorge you like grace?
You fought the bull, boy! And you lived another day!"
But Cohn just whispered, "Papa don't care,
Papa don't care,
Papa don't care,
Papa don't care,"
And faded in the gloom and then was gone,
And Norman hung his head and trudged back to his room
And sat there staring at the gun.
Samuel Beckett,
The writer as skimp.
Ernest Hemingway,
The writer as simp.
Scott Fitzgerald,
The writer as primp.
W.H. Auden,
The writer as wimp.
Gertrude Stein,
The writer as blimp.
Henry Miller,
The writer as imp.
Arthur Miller,
The writer as pimp.
Susan Sontag,
The writer as lymph.
The writer as skimp.
Ernest Hemingway,
The writer as simp.
Scott Fitzgerald,
The writer as primp.
W.H. Auden,
The writer as wimp.
Gertrude Stein,
The writer as blimp.
Henry Miller,
The writer as imp.
Arthur Miller,
The writer as pimp.
Susan Sontag,
The writer as lymph.
D.M. Thomas,
The writer as nymph.
Truman Capote,
The writer as limp.
The Sixth Lord Byron,
The writer as gimp.
Ezra Pound,
The writer as chimp.
Norman Mailer,
The writer as shrimp.
O there's nobody left to read, M'ma,
There's nobody left to read.
The writer as nymph.
Truman Capote,
The writer as limp.
The Sixth Lord Byron,
The writer as gimp.
Ezra Pound,
The writer as chimp.
Norman Mailer,
The writer as shrimp.
O there's nobody left to read, M'ma,
There's nobody left to read.
But they all give me something,
Stand me in new winds,
Rearrange my hair.
Restless spirit trying to incarnate,
Feeling my way,
Winning through to silence,
Betrayed by boredom.
The whole thing here is forgetting.
Stand me in new winds,
Rearrange my hair.
Restless spirit trying to incarnate,
Feeling my way,
Winning through to silence,
Betrayed by boredom.
The whole thing here is forgetting.
Robert MacLean is a bad poet and an independent filmmaker. His The Light Touch is on Amazon Prime, Tubi, Scanbox and YouTube, and his 7-minute comedy is an out-loud laugh. He is also a screamingly funny novelist, a playwright, a blogger, a YouTuber, a reviewer of films, a literary critic, and a stand-up comic poet. Born Toronto, PhD McGill, taught at Canadian universities, too cold, lives Greece, Irish citizen. He is of towering intellect but, as is often the case with such people, not that bright.
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