04-27-2016, 05:18 AM
The Crashing Streetcar
At age three the gardener
first plucked my flower, a pink rose;
rough hands spread me to show
velvet under white cotton.
Thorn prick trickled blood down;
my favorite lace socks, ruined.
Always wanted to be a perfect southern bell,
a real princess ever since I could remember,
working man being my first at such a young age,
chastity remained only a dream.
They arrived one after another.
I wanted tea parties and petticoats—
more than ever, but my pretty
taken as their price. I had a role:
the lust of the town.
It was my job to make men hard,
turn them into sweating stallions sighing.
It just wouldn’t feel right if I didn’t,
and so I tried.
A real suitor had me thinking
I actually made it
into an acceptable looking life.
My dear fiancé expected me chaste and pure,
but finding my new husband in bed with a man
insulted me; I hadn’t done my job well.
It was screaming he was dirty
and disgusting that ended me.
When his suicide made me a widow,
I played at being school teacher,
reassured myself, coaxed fresh
pubescent boys into action.
The younger the better
to make me forget a little while,
but that was stupid.
Found out,
the last relatives died of shock.
I took up prostitution
and alcohol at a cheap hotel,
lost the ancestral home.
Still couldn’t stop
the Southern Bell in me;
off to my sister Stella
with nowhere else left.
Her husband Stanley
wasn’t good enough,
but I needed him to want me,
having learned my worth young.
Met a polite gentleman--
Mitch liked me even with lines
showing my age,
but I kissed a young boy
while waiting for our date.
Maybe I could be the chaste bell
I always wanted after all—
but Stanley sold me out to Mitch;
then I wasn’t good enough
for his mamma, but he tried a fuck;
I have always been worth that.
The southern lady I am was horrified.
Then I turned Stanley hard.
He raped me
while Stella had his baby.
Lovely people in white coats
escorted me to my wedding;
the millionaire Shep Huntleigh,
awaited. Mitch cried.
I don’t know why since he didn’t object--
bells ringing were mighty pretty and the sunlight
didn’t worry me as I tossed my bouquet of roses
standing in a puddle of petals
never to turn men hard again.
I always could depend on the kindness of strangers.
At age three the gardener
first plucked my flower, a pink rose;
rough hands spread me to show
velvet under white cotton.
Thorn prick trickled blood down;
my favorite lace socks, ruined.
Always wanted to be a perfect southern bell,
a real princess ever since I could remember,
working man being my first at such a young age,
chastity remained only a dream.
They arrived one after another.
I wanted tea parties and petticoats—
more than ever, but my pretty
taken as their price. I had a role:
the lust of the town.
It was my job to make men hard,
turn them into sweating stallions sighing.
It just wouldn’t feel right if I didn’t,
and so I tried.
A real suitor had me thinking
I actually made it
into an acceptable looking life.
My dear fiancé expected me chaste and pure,
but finding my new husband in bed with a man
insulted me; I hadn’t done my job well.
It was screaming he was dirty
and disgusting that ended me.
When his suicide made me a widow,
I played at being school teacher,
reassured myself, coaxed fresh
pubescent boys into action.
The younger the better
to make me forget a little while,
but that was stupid.
Found out,
the last relatives died of shock.
I took up prostitution
and alcohol at a cheap hotel,
lost the ancestral home.
Still couldn’t stop
the Southern Bell in me;
off to my sister Stella
with nowhere else left.
Her husband Stanley
wasn’t good enough,
but I needed him to want me,
having learned my worth young.
Met a polite gentleman--
Mitch liked me even with lines
showing my age,
but I kissed a young boy
while waiting for our date.
Maybe I could be the chaste bell
I always wanted after all—
but Stanley sold me out to Mitch;
then I wasn’t good enough
for his mamma, but he tried a fuck;
I have always been worth that.
The southern lady I am was horrified.
Then I turned Stanley hard.
He raped me
while Stella had his baby.
Lovely people in white coats
escorted me to my wedding;
the millionaire Shep Huntleigh,
awaited. Mitch cried.
I don’t know why since he didn’t object--
bells ringing were mighty pretty and the sunlight
didn’t worry me as I tossed my bouquet of roses
standing in a puddle of petals
never to turn men hard again.
I always could depend on the kindness of strangers.
"Write while the heat is in you...The writer who postpones the recording of his thoughts uses an iron which has cooled to burn a hole with." --Henry David Thoreau