Underneath tulle and tattered satin,

the doc martens with flashy aluminum-colored

laces, what did she really have to offer?

A pretty face, a sneering full-lipped mouth. Light

eyes and a dagger tongue, calling southern comfort

via wire-stricken throat (choke, choke, choke, CHOKE

like a chant for children who drink too much gin-and-

toxic) calling up gods of revelry and rage--in equal time.

The girl who always wears the teeniest little tank tops,

her blouses too low cut and I bet if you look close you'll

see she never wears a bra--unless it's to push up. Raise

her whole feathery hard-muscled little body through the

confines of cloth and coloring.

Idolizing Edie Sedgwick 'cause she likes to be bitchy, likes

to burn things too, would like to live in the Chelsea where they

never clean the hotel rooms, is just as dirty-sexy. French films

and a French kiss for first person she sees every other hour.

Star in those cheap art house movies where they stir the pornography

with a pinch of brutality and a blood smeared camera lense. Those reels

of the world are hers. If you master the bedroom, you can master anything.

And she does it like the girls of yester-year when the post-nymphet next door was not so chic,

and she does it like you wish you could. Smile at the little cowards, show off

the tube in your mouth. Spent five weeks in intensive care--swallowed broken glass.

On a dare.

She's playing the FEMINIST card (I bet that word stings and it should),

but the way she tells it you'd think it's a brand new story. Fact of the matter is,

nothing is for free. And if you can't see what she is, every weakness every tear,

what makes you think you'll want what she has to offer?