The obviously pseudonomynous author of "Marijuana Girl," N.R. DeMexico, "was identified by folklorist and erotica historian Gershon Legman as Robert Campbell Bragg, a Greenwich Village bohemian and novelist, and one of the people who, along with Anais Nin and Henry Miller, wrote erotica for the wealthy Oklahoma collector Roy Milisander Johnson." So I learned from Booktryst.com. Legman was the go-between.
"The Bragg-N.R. De Mexico connection was recently cemented for all time when a fellow named Fender Tucker, one of the yeoman, blue-collar fan-bibliographers who've taken it upon themselves to do the messy and difficult work of investigating the world of vintage paperbacks… found Robert Bragg's son, corresponded with him, and definitively nailed Bragg as N.R. DeMexico.
Also, "'Marijuana Girl,' served as Exhibit A in Congressman Ezekiel C. Gathings's House Select Committee on the proliferation of literature he considered a pox on American society, refering to the novel as 'A Manual of Instruction for Potential Narcotic Addicts.'
"The artwork on the original edition (Universal, 1951) is a painting by Robert Edward McGinnis, an American artist and illustrator renowned for illustrating more than 1,200 paperback book covers, and over 40 movie posters, including Breakfast at Tiffany's (his first film poster assignment), Barbarella, and several James Bond and Matt Helm films."
Barbarella
My love is an actress, she can weep like a willow, her laughter is somehow the same.
All the world is a mattress, the moon is a pillow, and half the world thinks it knows her real game.
Shout out bravo for her my friend. Clap just as loud as you can.
Stars were made to shine and never fade, and the planets go round like blades on a fan.
The first act is ending, the outcome seems certain, I quietly get up to leave.
How can I bear their velvet curtain Falling on all of the things I perceive?
Shout out bravo for me my friend. Clap just as loud as you can.
If her valet says “which way’d he go?” You can tell –but don’t tell how fast I ran
Past stage-door Johnies with dozens of roses, They clutter the sidewalk for miles.
I look at the hookers striking their poses, They pierce my heart with their 12-year-old wiles.
Shout out bravo for no one now, No need to clap your hands.
Stars were made to shine and never fade and the planets go round like it’s all in the plan.
Be First to Comment