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Postmodern Village
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shrieking girl
by Hezekiah Allen Taylor

cowering in a dark corner
under the lip of the patio
I listen

she's a little drunk again-
just tipsy, she says-
and singing to him

she's always fuckin' singing to him
it's recurring foreplay

tonight it's Nancy Sinatra
These boots are made for walkin'
and that's just what they'll do
one of these days these boots
are gonna walk all over you

I can see her stripping
amid the swirling dark floaties
behind my eyelids

I don't have to really look
and I've just warmed up
this spot of damp earth
I don't want it to chill again

When the singing stops abruptly,
when she leaves off mid-sentence
I know she's been speared by him

he's always so hot for her drunken act
and now I don't want to look at all

then the singing becomes
whispers, hums-sometimes a combination
always with the tempo of his hips slamming
hard, fast into hers

then the tune's lost amid gurgles
and the lurid noise of wet flesh meeting
and parting-sometimes I tell her
it sounds like the burp on Tupperware
and she wrinkles her nose
and giggles a bit shaking her head
but her hand moves farther up my thigh
and she sighs and wishes me older
or herself younger, thinner, prettier
and her daughter out of the picture
but then she laughs again, tossing the thought away
assuming I'd never put stock in such flirtation

but her daughter never does this
this screaming that vibrates out
through the wooden beams of the porch
and down into the earth itself-
making my grass-stained knees and calves tingle

there's this absolute abandon to the moment
like a little girl offering mud pies
with the total sincerity of chocolate cream

Francine's Version -- Hezekiah's Version -- Inspiration
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