Underthings.
Didn't invent it, but it's somehow mildly better. Old fashioned. Not dirty or clumsy or new, not like us. Underthings is a word with an old soul.
Old soul - now that's how to turn a phrase. Older than time. I should have been born in the forties - though I would've ended up labeled as a "loose woman-" but that's only if men would come near me anyway. The tattoos would've been a turn off to the successful men; nobody in business suits walking down 2nd Avenue would've tried to take me home in those days. (Stuffy, stifled lawyer-types, Wall Street men with dirty secrets, desires they can't tell their wives - "Hey Mama, nice ink...wanna come dancin' in the Meat Packing District?" "Sure, Daddy, I'll pack that meat for you...")
Shae's still gone but Trist's coming back. He knew the fourteen year old when she was fourteen. Tossed her depressed ass out when she was eighteen. He'll never know what a blessing that was. Took me out like the trash (oh, cliches, how you roll of my tongue, others' tongues, my mother's tongue), dumped me in the bay only to watch me crawl out in New York Harbor.
Everything I've seen today, yesterday, is of New York City, of lights and crazy liveliness. I'm aching for it, the dead pile of rubbish beating harder. I could get the things that do it there - here, friends frown even at my cigarettes, would at my sangria. The fact I've dropped acid is a terrifying choice leading me down the path to meth. Oh, to live without the knowledge that, if you can handle it, LSD actually HELPS me. MDMA HELPS me.
I need the street and the bums and the beat of the city lights, shining hard in the distance; I need to be trapped in my apartment in a rainstorm, only to go on the roof and let myself soak in the dirty, filthy putrid rain.
But I'm here, drinking my mother's wine, and longing for Trist, "molly," and a cozy home with our kids.
Didn't invent it, but it's somehow mildly better. Old fashioned. Not dirty or clumsy or new, not like us. Underthings is a word with an old soul.
Old soul - now that's how to turn a phrase. Older than time. I should have been born in the forties - though I would've ended up labeled as a "loose woman-" but that's only if men would come near me anyway. The tattoos would've been a turn off to the successful men; nobody in business suits walking down 2nd Avenue would've tried to take me home in those days. (Stuffy, stifled lawyer-types, Wall Street men with dirty secrets, desires they can't tell their wives - "Hey Mama, nice ink...wanna come dancin' in the Meat Packing District?" "Sure, Daddy, I'll pack that meat for you...")
Shae's still gone but Trist's coming back. He knew the fourteen year old when she was fourteen. Tossed her depressed ass out when she was eighteen. He'll never know what a blessing that was. Took me out like the trash (oh, cliches, how you roll of my tongue, others' tongues, my mother's tongue), dumped me in the bay only to watch me crawl out in New York Harbor.
Everything I've seen today, yesterday, is of New York City, of lights and crazy liveliness. I'm aching for it, the dead pile of rubbish beating harder. I could get the things that do it there - here, friends frown even at my cigarettes, would at my sangria. The fact I've dropped acid is a terrifying choice leading me down the path to meth. Oh, to live without the knowledge that, if you can handle it, LSD actually HELPS me. MDMA HELPS me.
I need the street and the bums and the beat of the city lights, shining hard in the distance; I need to be trapped in my apartment in a rainstorm, only to go on the roof and let myself soak in the dirty, filthy putrid rain.
But I'm here, drinking my mother's wine, and longing for Trist, "molly," and a cozy home with our kids.
