The Flapper
We were always ossified. I went
to see a man about a dog for my hip hooch
every day. We were zozzled, spifficated, embalmed.
Ab-so-lute-ly fried to the hat.
I mean, I was owled in every gin mill.
The speakeasies were good for a hair of the dog
and boy was I a hoofer.
I danced the Charleston before it had a name.
Everything was copacetic in the Roaring Twenties.
The real McCoy.
I'd go to the petting pantry just to neck.
I bobbed my hair so a baby grand could more easily
nuzzle my nape. And there's nothing sexier than
a ciggy. Smoke wrapped around me like glad rags.
I'd get tight with giggle water and let those gams
go. My squeeze kittens close on me when we danced.
And a drugstore cowboy would always crush on one of us.
I wasn't one to carry a torch, but I stayed away
from cake-eaters. You could find me
in a struggle buggy of some Tin Lizzie
with a man with a keen kisser.
I was a petting party goer.
You could see me real high on hip
at a necking party. I'd like it when
a man would hold me close
to his buckle. He would
kiss my neck and the cleavage
of my bubs until I forgot how short
my dress was. I danced with my knees.
All cash or check with a man. Real
close up on me. I'd love that.
When I got nookie from a man.
I kept the memory in a flower
in my hair. The heels of my shoes
were stack lovers. All of me
made up of sex and sweat
and drugs.
I appreciate any man when he
does a box job on me.
Knows what's inside.
I got stuck in a cellar full of panther piss
when the cops raided a joint we were dancing in.
You could hear their foot steps above us
as we bucked like smoke and he entered me.
His lips were dull daggers. I was flesh thick,
my labia was plum swell arousal.
My clitoris sang bright colored notes.
My nipples were oyster fruit.
The prohibition made us all
criminals. And criminals gotta act
like criminals. Thieves steal
and women become less virginal.
That's what the twenty’s did baby.
They made us all crazy for being elsewhere.
