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"hedy" poems
The papers said she was a small-town girl from Massachusetts, an aspiring actress with the looks of Hedy Lamarr or Norma Shearer. The boys, they liked her minced walk, those black curls and tight black dresses, But it was the smile that won you: An aphrodisiac painted deep red. The picture didn’t do her justice. I examined her body on a cold slab on metal: Black curls, upstairs and down, matted with Dirt and blood. Body, cut clean in half. I bent over to get a look at those eyes: Death hadn’t yet stolen their blue. Folks say she didn’t care for school, but studied Movies religiously. She was determined to be known by the world—one day, With bags and ambitions, she fled To California. Reporters called her a vagabond amongst Other Lost Angels; no permanent address, though her mother received letters every week. When the cops brought her in to identify the body, I pardoned the girl’s condition; I had not yet Stitched up the sides of her mouth. I hear the leeches got to the daughter first, Calling up the poor mother With some cockamamie story that her Little Betty had won a beauty contest. The mother answered their questions proudly, Never the wiser, never know she was Ghostwriting her own daughter’s obituary. Betty’s pretty picture was soon plastered across Headlines and the evening news: I could still hear the mother’s shrill screams From a few hours before. I had kept the girl’s Severed body draped, to give her Some dignity, but I couldn’t hide her Glasgow smile.
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Jul 14, 2010
Jul 14, 2010 at 6:32 PM UTC
The Mortician
The papers said she was a small-town girl from Massachusetts, an aspiring actress with the looks of Hedy Lamarr or Norma Shearer. The boys, they liked her minced walk, those black curls and tight black dresses, But it was the smile that won you: An aphrodisiac painted deep red. The picture didn’t do her justice. I examined her body on a cold slab on metal: Black curls, upstairs and down, matted with Dirt and blood. Body, cut clean in half. I bent over to get a look at those eyes: Death hadn’t yet stolen their blue. Folks say she didn’t care for school, but studied Movies religiously. She was determined to be known by the world—one day, With bags and ambitions, she fled To California. Reporters called her a vagabond amongst Other Lost Angels; no permanent address, though her mother received letters every week. When the cops brought her in to identify the body, I pardoned the girl’s condition; I had not yet Stitched up the sides of her mouth. I hear the leeches got to the daughter first, Calling up the poor mother With some cockamamie story that her Little Betty had won a beauty contest. The mother answered their questions proudly, Never the wiser, never know she was Ghostwriting her own daughter’s obituary. Betty’s pretty picture was soon plastered across Headlines and the evening news: I could still hear the mother’s shrill screams From a few hours before. I had kept the girl’s Severed body draped, to give her Some dignity, but I couldn’t hide her Glasgow smile.
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Their names are: Katie, Bobo, Bear-- Max and Buddy, Sushi and Grafin Hegwig von Stubenrein*, Hedy for short. For 30 years, dachshunds, chihuahuas and miniature schnauzers. Chihuahuas are definitely the undercover dogs, but dachshunds will burrow too. Hedy and Buddy at the foot of the bed, cross- and lengthwise. Bobo too, but anywise. Sushi and Max like it when we sleep on our sides-- preferring the crooks of the knees. Katie was an armpit dog. Dogs are mobile and in a pinch do double duty as a heating pad-- but a cold nose on bare skin is welcome in the heat of the summer. Night or nap, the company is welcome-- Did we rescue them or did they rescue us?
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Mar 2, 2020
Mar 2, 2020 at 7:32 PM UTC
Sleeping with dogs