Texaco Brooch Birthdays.

Betty had a dream, turning out waffles in some bummed out greasy cup no handle like such place, she caught her knickers, itching a flea that she would have bitten anyway; smoking a cigarette you know it had to be forgiven, her father lay dead in some cold bubble of a disbelieving schism; she had one cigarette and that was given. Betty being an old twenty two, with shoes for feet she walked a twenty five hour day, her thighs were never washed they just sweated away. A police car laughs through the rainy streamline night; I could have given her money but didn’t want a fight. Betty be dancing a rhythm only cheap whisky can bring, she had valuables but the bra strap had broken, when legs bruised she had awoken turning a bad taste in her mind, you would have thought she would have cried, but tears cost a dime when your down on your luck. She hitched up her pride and feeling hungry went to hook a meal; she slipped in the snow with a girlish squeal, the world applauded granddad in red and white, but Christmas day Betty avoided the light. Carol singer’s en snared a memory or two, with a wintry amorphous wind, she being drunk began to see and sing a shanty about absolutely nothing.

Betty wake up its your birthday, I’ll make you chocolate milk cornflakes whilst you don’t brush your teeth. Betty I have to go to work, but watch all the television there is in the world; daddies left and he’ll be in hell soon, but don’t open the door and to be safe keep the flat in gloom. Mother could you just sit with me awhile, it was cold last night and I’m too frozen to smile, but thanks for the brooch something so heavenly I’ve never seen; what is it? A fairy a frog or some such Disney thing, built by Jesus whilst Gomorrah was raining – it’s the logo of the petrol station where my life is filling, up with noxious fumes I’m always seeing, your father in raptures as you sit there crying, I wish you’d keep your skirt on when he is around, but that boozy image of some wrong visage keeps on swirling around; Betty don’t tell me, I could almost be a ghost the way I talk about this kitchen with a gone mouldy voice; a desultory pilot light when the gas has all gone, you can bake a cake with mother when her shift is done.

Betty meets a drink in the back of a bar; walking down streets that start off short, but either she’s shrinking or it’s longer than she thought. Picking up a broken bad days bad daze jigsaw, the pieces built from cheap plastic like the texture of your lipless lipstick. If that’s blood you better ring up the local rock n roll station, request Tom Waits hold on just awhile, Betty is drinking whisky and chamomile.

-How you doin’ honey, fancy a drink?

-My name is Betty what d’ya think?

-You look thirstier than an Arab on his birthday!

-Come on buddy, buy that drink you feel so inclined, rest your hand on my behind; I don’t want your money, but just do what you gotta do, then if you have a minute just cuddle me awhile too!

Betty before the whole entire year, with a Texaco brooch and an angel in her ear; Miss Jenkins is elated, in her middle class dress code, would have been a whisky drinkin’ poet but her religious father forbade. Betty in small socks and shoes a little too small, reads to her self the poem out into the squall; squirming squid like children to bored to ink, couldn’t right their name unless play time was on the brink. Betty with a ribbon tied pigtail, she reads in snail like sentences too rich to go fast, blowing the mind of the entire class…

“Seagulls bend like gone limp rope
Dipping hungry beaks into the sea yolk
Slippery fish giggle and jiggle
It’s so god damned funny, the fisherman can’t cope.”

Betty has tuberculosis but only the stomach kind, where the breathing is vapour somebody else left behind; Betty has cancerous teeth that even a blind dentist had to cry, she has a ten dollar bet and a Texaco brooch for an eye. You could forgive her the soiled words she leaves on your bed, you would kiss her if she ever got fed, you would marry her twice if the first time turned out to be a mime; Betty don’t forget the sun is coming up, riding the day with lady luck, a ten dollar bet is better than all the wrong done to you – you can’t forget.

Betty has a life like a slow cowboy song, tellin’ you about the hours she spent doing wrong. The motorway lights behave like all the lovers in a bar called Mike; bright and beguiling he buys you smiling a nice guy smile, if he takes you for a ride; it’ll be easy only a quick mile. You can't fake crazy, so just smile and pretend to be sane. Switch off the music and turn onto your hometown lane, Betty don’t forget the sun is coming up, riding the day like lady luck.