The Little Darlings
They celebrated their thirteenth
birthdays under boardwalks,
felt sand in soft places rubbed raw
by young men who wore leathers
like emblems of doomed youth,
making love with pubescent,
another rite passed on their
journey to twenty five to life
in some upstate pen they would
The Little darlings wore leopard skin
toreador pants that almost fit, matching
scoop top blouses and black bras when
they wore anything at all.
None of them had boyfriends
but all of them had fuck buddies,
interchangeable as spare parts,
some who worked better than others,
all of them with manufacturer’s
Their single moms worked 9-5
that’s PM to AM, turning tricks,
though they called it something
else, might see the sun six times
a year, by mistake, waking up
from some drug induced coma in
a place that let the outside in.
Brought home men who thought,
“.45 long Colt, S&W, the gun
that you can’t miss with” was gospel.
Had the words inscribed on their
chests in case someone needed
to quote chapter and verse.
No one cared what the Little Darlings
did when the adults weren’t around
as long as the place didn’t burn down
and they were quiet as choir girls, or, on
the nod, when they were.
The only book the Little Darlings
ever read was “Dancing on the Grave
of a Son of a Bitch”, found in a backpack
of some hippie chick they gang banged
for booty and for cash. Thought the title
sounded like the story of their lives
and, in a way, it was.
All the spare cash that wasn’t spent
on weed, butts, or booze was stored
in a jar labeled, “Tips for Tats for Tits”.
Their goal in life, to live until they
were sixteen; to acquire painted
birds and butterflies and affix them
to already-showing-signs-of hard-wear,
canvas of flesh.
Re-evaluating the classics
Sid Vicious sang
raucous & mean
down & dirty
all the slick
Just before the end
an American Werewolf
in London, dying
of cancer sang,
It’s still too dark to
see if he got in.