Mary Lou

A Poem by Subterannean

Her dress was the color of American rebellion. She was a real suburbanite angel, with wings made from the feathers of trust funds and wholesome xenophobia. Her pupils shone a sky blue ideology of hedonism at their cores. Her unconversant mind was fixated upon musings of the self, as altruism and sacrifice were antithetical to her inherent wealth. She was a precocious honor's student who excelled at chain-smoking and leg spreading. She possessed a look as wholesome as that of a plantation apple pie, let set on the mansion window sill, adjacent to the cotton field, its rousing scent infiltrating indentured negro nostrils. She was a baby-faced conglomerate, whose industry was her youth. She loathed her collegiate future, earning a Mrs. Degree, with a focus on breastfeeding and domesticity. Her Fridays nights wouldn't go wasted upon the study of flaccid textbooks. No, she'd be off burning into the cognition of memory's amnesiac night, loitering at the local burger joint, smoking niggersticks, listening to the manifest destiny propelled from the gospel of Dizzie Gillespie's trumpet, all the while manipulating the marionette of boyhood libido by its fickle strings. Her religion would undress itself under the silver curtain of constellations, in the backseat of some expendable lovers rusty-old hoopty, atop "loss of innocence" hill. Her vaginal walls infinite in time as God whispered sweet nothings in her ear while he finger fucked her.